IC-NRLF 


207 


P 


THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 


THEN  THE  WINDOWS  SPOKE  (page  11) 


THE 
STANDARD-BEARERS 

TRUE  STORIES  OF  HEROES  OF 
LAW  AND  ORDER 

BY  KATHERINE  MAYO 

•  / 

Author  of  JUSTICE  TO  AL.L 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
CAPTAIN  LOUIS  KEENE 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

The  Riverside  Press  Cambridge 
1918 


COPYRIGHT,    1918,    BY  THE   ATLANTIC    MONTHLY   COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,    1918,    BY  THE   CURTIS   PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,    1918,    BY    KATHERINE   MAYO 

ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


Published  June  igi8 


TO 

THE  YOUNG  MEN  OF  THE  NATION 
HEIRS  TO  A  NOBLE  WAR 


FOREWORD 

IN  the  foreword  of  an  earlier  book,  Justice  to  All,  I 
have  told  the  story  of  the  dastardly  murder  and 
heroic  death  of  Samuel  Howell,  carpenter,  ambushed 
by  robbers  on  a  lonely  country  road  in  the  State  of 
New  York.  In  the  book  itself  I  have  tried  to  tell  the 
story,  equally  heroic,  of  the  Pennsylvania  State  Police. 

The  slaying  of  that  fine  young  American  laboring 
man,  too  true  of  heart  to  buy  his  life  with  his  honor, 
unmasked  once  more  an  old  and  shameful  fact  — 
that  the  Empire  State  connived  at  such  tragedies  — 
accepted  them  without  feeling,  without  action,  and 
without  remark.  The  trade  of  robber  and  murderer, 
so  long  as  exercised  upon  the  poor,  was  practically  a 
snug  and  safe  employment  in  rural  New  York. 

The  rich,  like  lords  of  feudal  castles,  lived  in  their 
big  houses  surrounded  by  their  own  garrisons  of 
servants  and  guards.  But  those  of  less  estate,  the 
farmers,  the  laborers,  the  women  and  girl-children  in 
small  isolated  homes,  or  traversing  lonely  roads  as 
perforce  they  must,  —  in  a  word,  all  the  scattered 
population  of  the  countryside,  —  were  stolidly  ignored 
by  the  one  power  morally  responsible  for  their  safety 
and  then*  peace.  The  very  government  that  enacted 
the  laws  treated  its  own  enactments  as  "scraps  of 
paper."  The  criminal  world,  in  consequence,  remained 
at  perfect  liberty  to  do  the  same. 

The  bitter  outrage  of  this  truth,  seen  at  short  range 


viii  FOREWORD 

and  poignantly  realized,  drove  me  for  light  and  coun- 
sel to  the  only  State  in  the  Union  on  whose  name  no 
kindred  blot  appeared.  At  every  source  and  from 
many  and  varied  standpoints,  I  studied  the  Penn- 
sylvania State  Police,  carefully  checking  both  facts 
and  figures  as  I  moved  along  the  field. 

Then,  at  last,  because  no  working  account  of  the 
subject  already  existed  in  print,  and  in  order  to  lay 
the  plain  facts  in  available  shape  before  the  people  of 
New  York  and  of  the  Union,  I  wrote  Justice  to  AU, 
the  story  of  the  Pennsylvania  State  Police. 

The  purpose  of  that  book  exacted  condensation 
and  the  cutting-out  of  much  incident  that  might  have 
served  to  bring  its  meaning  home.  Out  of  the  mass  of 
material  thus  set  apart  have  been  taken  the  narra- 
tives that  form  this  present  volume. 

It  has  been  a  difficult  and  unwelcome  task  to  choose, 
from  so  large  a  sheaf,  what  to  take  and  what  to  leave. 
The  incidents  here  related  are  chosen,  not  because 
they  stand  out  from  the  rest,  but  just,  on  the  con- 
trary, because  they  fairly  illustrate  the  common  daily 
round  of  the  Pennsylvania  Force.  Space  alone  gov- 
erns their  number.  For  there  is  not  one  seasoned  man 
in  the  entire  Squadron  who  has  not  performed  many 
an  act  of  valor  and  of  service  equal  in  quality  to  those 
recounted  here. 

In  every  narrative  the  real  names  of  the  Troopers 
are  given.  In  every  instance  but  one,  the  actual 
names  of  localities  appear.  In  several  instances  I 
have  changed  the  names  of  criminals  at  the  request 
of  the  State  Police  themselves,  whose  creed  it  is  to 
temper  justice  with  mercy,  and  to  give  the  worst 


FOREWORD  ix 

man  every  chance  to  mend.  Again,  in  the  case  of 
innocent  citizens  and  of  the  victims  of  crime,  fictitious 
names  have  sometimes  been  used,  out  of  regard  for 
personal  feelings. 

Finally,  I  have  called  this  book  The  Standard- 
Bearers,  because  the  State  Police  idea  is  now  spread- 
ing rapidly  over  the  Union,  and  because  to  Pennsyl- 
vania only  the  Union  owes  this  priceless  good;  because 
it  was  to  the  Pennsylvania  Force  only,  under  the  mag- 
nificent leadership  of  Colonel  John  C.  Groome,  that 
the  people  of  New  York  looked  for  inspiration  when 
they  legislated,  last  year,  for  their  own  State  Police; 
because  it  was  to  the  unchallengeable  record,  to  the 
unsurpassable  achievements  of  our  own  true  Ameri- 
can boys  in  our  own  Keystone  State,  and  not  to  any 
foreign  body  whatsoever,  however  fine,  that  the  peo- 
ple, the  Governor,  and  the  Legislature  of  New  York 
looked  for  their  faith  and  their  hope. 

The  Pennsylvania  State  Police,  during  all  the  years 
of  its  existence,  has  been  attacked,  vilified,  slan- 
dered with  an  unscrupulous  venom  that  has  known 
neither  bounds  nor  truth  nor  shame.  Every  treacher- 
ous, mean,  and  disloyal  element,  under  many  and 
curious  guises,  has  sapped  and  mined  and  openly  or 
secretly  fought  to  cripple  its  work  and  to  diminish 
or  to  blacken  its  fame.  But  the  Pennsylvania  State 
Police  has  needed  no  defense  but  its  own  record,  un- 
swervingly built  through  the  days  and  years.  Stead- 
fastly led,  steadfastly  advancing  with  one  heart  and 
one  purpose,  it  has  pursued  its  lofty  ideal  undisturbed 
and  unconfused. 

Now  we  see  the  result  —  a  slow  growth  like  all  great 


x  FOREWORD 

permanent  structures  of  good.  Watered  with  its  own 
heart-blood,  strengthened  with  the  iron  of  discipline 
and  of  hardship,  knit  together  by  the  bonds  of  heroic 
sacrifice  rendered  as  a  matter  of  course,  without 
grudging  or  flinching,  and  received  equally  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  without  thanks  and  without  reward, 
the  Pennsylvania  State  Police  to-day  triumphantly 
leads  the  Union. 

For  any  and  every  other  commonwealth  entering 
the  field,  the  Pennsylvania  State  Police  must  be  the 
Standard-Bearers.  We  do  but  honor  ourselves  in  ac- 
knowledging it.  Let  us  watch  that  standard  where  they 
still  carry  it  far  in  the  van.  Let  us  beseech  for  all  our 
young  forces,  whether  now  in  existence  or  soon  to  be 
born,  true  understanding,  high  ambition,  perfect  stead- 
fastness, endurance,  strength,  nobility  of  mind  and 
purpose,  faithfully  to  follow  that  oriflamme  ahead. 

It  is  no  easy  task  —  no  goal  to  be  soon  or  lightly 
gained.  But  in  so  far  as  through  stern  years  of  dis- 
cipline, devotion,  and  sacrifice  they  may  win  grace 
and  strength  to  approach  it,  just  so  far  will  they 
make  good. 

KM. 

BEDFORD  HILLS,  N.Y. 
April,  1918 


CONTENTS 

I.  THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE 1 

II.  "D"  TROOP  TIDIES  UP 33 

III.  BABE 56 

IV.  BIG  MINE  RUN 66 

V.  THE  HUNGRY  ROPE 126 

VI.  ISRAEL  DRAKE 157 

VII.  THE  COON-HUNTERS 179 

VIII.  THE  FARMERS'  BATTLE 197 

IX.  CHERRY  VALLEY 217 

X.  THE  CAPTAIN  OF  TROOP  "A"        .      .      .      .232 

XI.  ACCORDING  TO  CODE 256 

XII.  JOHN  G 266 

XIII.  HOT  WEATHER 275 

XIV.  GET  YOUR  MAN 289 

XV.  No  STORY  AT  ALL  .  304 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THEN  THE  WINDOWS  SPOKE         ....  Frontispiece 
RODE  STRAIGHT  DOWN  HELLTOWN*S  MAIN  STREET     .    38 

THRUST  HIS  SOFT  NOSE  OVER  CORPORAL  METCALF'S 
SHOULDER 64 

MARIA  SAT  IN  HER  CELL,  NURSING  HER  BABY      .       .100 
"I  SHALL  DEFEND  THE  PRISONER  OF  THE  STATE"        .  146 

AGAIN  HE  HELD  HIS  CANDLE  LOW 204 

"YOU  MEN  HAVE  TO  MAKE  GOOD  IN  THAT  COUNTRY"  .  218 
THE  SERGEANT  PICKED  HIM  UP  IN  HIS  ARMS  AND 

CARRIED  HIM  DOWNSTAIRS  .  .    288 


THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

i 

THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE 

DECEMBER  15,  1905,  was  the  birthday  of  the 
Pennsylvania  State  Police.  On  that  day  the  men 
chosen  to  compose  the  new  Force,  coming  from  the 
four  quarters  of  the  United  States,  assembled  at  the 
four  Troop  stations  and  began  their  training. 

Officers  and  men  alike  were  strangers  to  each  other, 
and  strangers  to  the  work  that  they  were  organized  to 
perform.  They  had  everything  to  learn,  from  the 
principles  and  details  of  their  new  profession  to  the 
amount  of  confidence  that  they  could  place  in  their 
comrades-in-arms.  They  had  an  immense  task  before 
them  —  two  hundred  and  twenty-eight  of  them  were 
to  police  the  whole  rural  State  —  and  they  had  an 
incredulous  or  hostile  public  opinion  to  conquer  by 
high  deserts. 

Of  one  thing  alone  they  were  sure  —  their  deep 
respect  for  their  squadron  commander,  Major  John  C. 
Groome.  They  had  yet  to  test  him  by  time  and  ex- 
perience—  they  had  yet  to  learn  with  what  gallant 
courage  and  high  integrity,  with  what  cloudless  loyalty, 
what  absolute  justice,  what  stern  soldierly  discipline, 
and  what  great-hearted  sympathy  he  would  both  lead 
and  support  his  men.  But  each  one  of  them  had 


2  THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

received  his  electric  first  impression,  each  man  had 
guessed  those  truths  that  time  would  prove.  Each 
man  had  felt  his  heart  thrill  and  his  spirit  rise  to  its 
best,  when  the  Major,  in  accepting  him  as  a  recruit,  had 
told  him  the  object  and  standard  of  the  new  Force. 

And  then  each  man,  even  as  he  cast  a  questioning 
eye  upon  his  unknown  mates,  said  in  his  own  heart 
that  he  himself  in  any  case  would  do  his  level  best 
"to  make  good  for  the  Major." 

In  the  first  few  days  of  association,  however,  a 
stout  tie  had  connected  them  almost  all.  Ninety  per 
cent  of  the  men  were  old  soldiers,  sailors  or  marines, 
honorably  discharged,  "character  excellent,"  from  the 
United  States  service.  If  they  had  not  served  in  the 
same  regiment,  or  on  the  same  ship,  they  had  shared 
the  same  campaigns,  the  same  life,  the  same  stand- 
ards and  discipline.  And  each  one  knew  what  it  costs 
to  make  a  man. 

Four  stiff  months  they  put  in,  the  four  Troops 
in  their  several  barracks,  studying  hard,  before  the 
Major  would  let  them  take  the  field.  They  must  know 
the  law,  before  attempting  to  execute  it.  With  their 
scanty  numbers  and  their  great  territory,  they  would 
usually  be  very  far  from  any  source  of  sound  legal  ad- 
.  vice  when  moments  for  action  came.  And  to  build  up 
the  high  prestige  by  which  alone  so  small  a  force  could 
operate  successfully,  they  must  never  be  in  the  wrong. 

It  meant  stiff  grinding.  It  has  meant  continued 
study  ever  since,  by  means  of,  which  the  older  Troop- 
ers of  the  Force  are  to-day  good  criminal  lawyers,  while 
some  have  actually  become  attorneys  and  counsellors 
at  law. 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE         3 

It  has  meant  stiff  discipline,  too,  —  the  stiffest,  — 
and  an  active  standard  of  morals  probably  unequalled 
in  any  other  organization.  The  Pennsylvania  State 
Police  has  no  guard-house  and  knows  no  second 
offense.  And  the  most  relentless  guardians  of  its 
Spartan  rule  are  the  old  Troopers  themselves.  Fel- 
lowship in  that  picked  body  is  a  privilege,  in  their  es- 
teem, to  be  earned  with  single-hearted  devotion  and 
sacrifice,  to  be  defended  in  its  honor  as  a  gem  beyond 
price.  They  have  advanced  their  high  mark  of  achieve- 
ment, notch  by  notch,  as  opportunity  has  opened  to 
their  eager  eyes.  They  have  never  let  it  fall  or  suffer 
stain.  Their  enemies  are  their  honor,  their  friends  are 
all  honest  folk  who  know  them,  their  proud  and  ready 
celebrants  are  the  first  men  in  the  land. 

So  "D"  Troop,  quartered  at  Punxsutawney,  was 
pegging  away  like  the  rest,  impatient  to  get  into 
service.  Even  from  its  present  confinement  it  could 
see  that  work  in  plenty  awaited  it,  and  it  had  not 
been  a  fortnight  assembled  when  a  special  word  fanned 
its  fires. 

That  word  was  brought  into  barracks  by  First 
Sergeant  Lumb.  First  Sergeant  Lumb  had  been  hav- 
ing a  little  friendly  talk  with  Punxsutawney 's  Chief " 
of  Police. 

"Sergeant,"  said  the  Chief,  "here  is  a  fact  that 
one  day  may  be  useful  to  you:  Half  the  bad  trouble 
in  this  whole  region  is  hatched  just  seven  miles  from 
this  very  town.  On  the  map  the  place  is  called 
Florenza,  but  we  folks  all  say  *  Florence'  —  just 
Florence,  and  a  regular  hotbed  of  mischief  it  is. 


4  THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

If  I  could  ever  have  got  any  one  to  stand  behind  me 
I  would  have  attacked  it  long  ago.  But  they're  all 
afraid.  Now,  the  next  time  I  cross  its  tracks  I  shall 
call  on  you  for  help.  But  if  you  meet  trouble  first, 
remember  what  I  have  said:  Florence  is  the  very  root 
of  deviltry" 

Time  passed.  The  four  Troops  took  the  field,  each 
in  its  own  quarter,  each  impatient  to  make  its  own 
record  the  best  in  the  Squadron.  Not  yet  did  their 
countrysides  flood  them  with  appeals  for  help  in  every 
sort  of  difficulty,  as  presently  they  would  come  to  do; 
but  their  hands  were  full,  nevertheless.  And  in  the 
scanty  leisure  hours  the  men  still  sought  their  com- 
mon object. 

So  came  one  Sunday  afternoon,  September  2,  1906. 
The  day  was  glorious  —  hot  and  fine  —  such  a  day  as 
must  surely  have  tempted  men  off  duty  to  go  a-gam- 
bolling.  Sergeant  Logan  was  off  duty,  but  to  him  the 
freedom  merely  suggested  an  extra  chance  to  pros- 
pect for  work.  Like  the  rest  of  the  Force,  he  was 
"taking  a  plunge  wherever  he  saw  water,"  —  hunting 
for  hard  jobs  and  honors. 

Now,  it  happened  that  within  the  past  ten  days 
several  murderous  cutting  affrays  had  occurred  in  the 
general  vicinity  of  Punxsutawney.  The  assailants 
were  unknown  except  to  their  victims,  who  refused 
to  reveal  their  identity  for  fear  of  worse  to  come. 
But  the  victims  themselves  were  not  of  the  stripe  that 
turns  the  other  cheek,  and  in  all  likelihood  their  adver- 
saries even  now  were  hidden  near  by,  nursing  injuries. 

So  Sergeant  Logan,  saying  nothing  to  any  one, 
changed  into  civilian  dress  and  started. 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE         5 

"I'll  take  a  look  into  that  Florence,"  said  he  to 
himself.  "It  might  give  a  clue." 

He  boarded  a  trolley  for  Anita,  a  hamlet  about  a 
mile  distant  from  the  village  of  ill  renown.  At  Anita 
he  debarked  —  it  was  then  three  o'clock  —  and  pro- 
ceeded leisurely  to  complete  the  trip  on  foot.  As  he 
walked,  he  debated  ways  and  means. 

"I'll  call  on  the  doctor,"  he  concluded.  "If  any 
one  living  in  the  place  has  been  much  hurt,  that  doc- 
tor, most  likely,  will  have  treated  the  wounds." 

Florence  was  a  little  mining  town  of  about  two 
hundred  inhabitants.  The  larger  part  of  the  popula- 
tion was  Austrian,  with  some  mingling  of  Italians. 
Aside  from  these  were  the  mine  bosses,  Welsh  or 
Irish,  and  the  company  officials,  the  store-keeper,  the 
doctor,  and  a  few  others. 

Dr.  Bodenhorn  lived  on  the  main  street,  a  steep  in- 
cline. Diagonally  above,  on  the  opposite  side  from 
his  cottage,  stood  the  power-house.  Then,  higher  up, 
came  the  railroad  track,  crossing  the  street  at  right 
angles.  And  beyond,  again,  the  street  still  climbed, 
with  detached  stores  and  dwellings  on  either  side. 

At  a  little  after  four  o'clock  Dr.  Bodenhorn  and 
Sergeant  Logan  sat  on  the  doctor's  front  veranda, 
talking  over  the  ways  of  the  world. 

"Have  you  had  any  cases  of  cutting  or  wounding 
to  attend,  within  the  last  week  or  so?"  the  Sergeant 
asked. 

"No,"  answered  the  doctor;  "for  a  wonder  I  have  n't. 
But  I'll  tell  you  something  in  your  own  line:  Do  you 
see  that  two-storied  wooden  building  up  yonder  just 
across  the  railroad  track  from  the  power-house?  Well, 


6  THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

that  building  is  the  resort  of  the  very  worst  char- 
acters in  this  part  of  the  State,  and  they  hold  a  regu- 
lar meeting  there  every  Sunday  afternoon.  If  you 
are  ever  in  search  of  any  particular  blackguard  — 
Hi!  Look  at  that!  What  are  they  up  to  now?" 

Out  from  the  door  of  the  building  came  pouring  a 
crowd  of  men,  some  thirty-five  in  number,  surround- 
ing two  who  seemed  to  be  locked  in  a  desperate  fight. 

Waiting  only  a  moment  to  observe,  the  Sergeant 
dashed  up  the  road,  shoved  his  way  through  the 
crowd,  tore  the  two  combatants  apart,  and  placed 
one  under  arrest.  As  he  did  so,  he  recognized  in  the 
second  brawler  a  man  named  Walsach,  charged  with 
murder  and  wanted  by  the  police.  But  before  he 
could  lay  hands  upon  the  second  man,  the  crowd 
surged  in  between,  and  Walsach  ran  back  into  the 
house  whence  all  had  emerged,  some  twenty  feet 
away. 

Not  yet  did  the  Sergeant  guess  that  the  whole  af- 
fair was  arranged  —  that  the  gang  had  recognized 
him  for  a  State  Police  officer  as  he  sat  on  the  doctor's 
porch,  and  had  hastily  plotted  a  trap  to  kill  him  forth- 
with. He  swallowed  the  bait  whole. 

Dragging  his  prisoner  with  him  across  the  street  to 
the  house  door,  Logan  gripped  him  with  his  left  hand 
while  he  grasped  the  doorknob  with  his  right,  and 
stepped  over  the  threshold.  As  he  did  so,  and  while  his 
hand  was  yet  on  the  knob,  Walsach  the  murderer, 
lurking  within,  leaped  at  him  with  stiletto  upraised. 
Logan  jumped  to  the  right  as  far  as  the  door-casing 
would  permit.  The  blade  passed  between  his  coat 
and  his  shirt,  till  the  hilt  struck  on  his  ribs.  Not 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE         7 

daring  a  second  blow,  the  murderer  dropped  his  dag- 
ger, sprang  out  of  the  door  and  away. 

Sergeant  Logan's  one  thought,  now,  was  to  secure 
the  fugitive,  because  of  his  record  of  crime.  So  he 
dropped  his  comparatively  unimportant  prisoner, 
pulled  out  his  revolver,  and  started  on  the  run  after 
his  man. 

As  he  turned  the  east  corner  of  the  house,  one  of 
the  many  bystanders  now  collected  called  out  that 
Walsach  was  circling  around  the  building  behind  him, 
armed  with  a  Winchester  rule.  Sergeant  Logan  in- 
stantly faced  about  and  retraced  his  steps  to  meet 
the  attack. 

As  he  turned  the  corner  again,  Walsach  fired.  His 
aim  was  high.  The  Sergeant  dropped  to  his  left 
knee,  his  right  side  to  the  criminal,  trying  to  offer  as 
small  a  target  as  possible.  For  as  long  as  it  takes  to 
empty  a  Winchester  the  two  had  it,  give  and  take, 
at  a  distance  of  about  fifty  feet.  Then  Walsach 
ran  back  into  the  house,  bleeding,  followed  by  his 
gang. 

As  for  Sergeant  Logan,  for  the  second  time  that 
day  it  seemed  that  his  life  was  charmed.  The  only 
bullet  that  touched  him  had  passed  into  the  tip  of  his 
left  shoe,  under  the  toes,  and  out  through  the  sole, 
making  no  wound  whatever. 

"Where's  the  nearest  telephone?"  called  the  Ser- 
geant to  the  crowd. 

"Power-house,"  shouted  some  not  unfriendly  voice. 

"Will  some  of  you  watch  the  place  for  a  moment?" 

"All  right.    Goon." 

Sergeant  Logan  ran  to  the  power-house,  just  across 


8  THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

the  railroad  track,  called  up  Barracks,  and  stated  his 
case. 

"Can  you  send  out  three  or  four  men?"  he  asked 
First  Sergeant  Lumb.  "Walsach  is  here,  with  a  bad 
crowd  around  him.  I  Ve  had  difficulty  already  — 
can't  make  the  arrest  alone." 

Sergeant  Lumb  banged  the  receiver  into  the  hook, 
and  flung  open  the  day-room  door. 

"Chambers  —  Henry  —  Mullen  —  Mcllvain  — 
Koch,"  said  he,  choosing  from  the  stalwart  uniformed 
figures  present.  "You  five  men  have  seven  minutes  to 
get  the  next  trolley.  Beat  it  to  Florence." 

As  the  trolley  drew  in  at  the  foot  of  the  main  street 
of  Florence,  a  crowd  of  considerable  size  was  gathered 
around  the  station,  awaiting  its  arrival,  and  the  as- 
pect of  that  crowd  was  not  good.  Leering,  snarling 
faces  showed  all  through  it,  and  the  mass,  quite 
clearly,  would  welcome  a  chance  to  break  loose. 

"Boys,"  said  Chambers,  "we  are  up  against  it. 
Don't  all  get  out  of  the  same  end  of  the  car." 

Henry  and  Chambers  left  by  the  front  platform. 
As  Chambers  stepped  down,  he  saw  a  man  near  him 
drawing  a  pistol.  With  one  quick  blow  he  knocked 
that  man  down.  With  another  he  felled  a  second  who 
was  reaching  for  his  pocket.  An  instant  more  and  he 
had  their  two  guns. 
A ,  "Take  these  fellows,  Koch,"  said  he. 

Private  Koch  snapped  handcuffs  on  the  pair. 

"Mcllvain  and  Koch,  take  charge  of  the  prisoners," 
ordered  Chambers,  who  led  the  detail.  "Come  on, 
men." 

As  they  shoved  their  way  uphill  through  the  crowd, 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE         9 

it  was  determined  that  as  they  reached  the  power- 
house Koch  should  fall  out,  with  the  prisoners,  and 
hold  them  there  under  guard  while  the  four  others 
proceeded  straight  on  to  the  building  into  which  Lo- 
gan's assailant  had  fled.  A  bystander  pointed  out 
the  place.  More  they  had  no  need  to  know. 

The  house  was  a  frame  structure  of  two  stories  with 
a  peaked  roof.  A  stone  foundation  raised  its  first 
story  about  three  feet  from  the  street  level.  This 
ground  floor,  on  the  side  facing  the  power-house  and 
the  railroad  track,  had  no  windows  at  all  and  but  one 
door.  Abovestairs  were  windows,  but  their  roller  cur- 
tains were  pulled  almost  down.  No  sign  of  life  was 
anywhere  visible. 

The  four  Troopers  pushed  ahead,  beyond  the  power- 
house and  up  the  steep  road  to  the  railroad  crossing, 
Henry  leading,  Chambers  at  his  heels,  then  Mullen, 
then  Mcllvain.  At  a  point  about  thirty-five  feet  dis- 
tant from  the  house,  they  veered  to  the  right,  toward 
the  door.  On  the  instant  a  volley  rang  out  from  the 
curtained  windows  of  the  upper  story.  A  bullet 
grazed  Chambers's  head  and  tore  his  hat  away.  Henry 
dropped  in  a  heap  where  it  caught  him. 

Now,  Henry  was  Chambers's  chosen  friend.  The 
first  had  been  a  corporal  of  United  States  Marines, 
while  the  second  had  seen  long  service  in  the  Navy, 
quitting  as  coxswain,  "character  excellent."  The 
two  now  called  themselves  "shipmates,"  swapped 
man-o'-war's-men's  yarns,  bunked  side  by  side,  worked 
together  whenever  they  could,  loved  each  other.  And 
Chambers  was  only  just  twenty-five  years  old. 

But  Chambers  had  been  bred  in  a  stern  school  —  the 


10          THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

school  of  warfare  and  battle.  To  see  a  friend  fall  bleed- 
ing at  his  feet  was  no  new  sight  to  him.  To  have  paused, 
to  have  turned  back  on  that  account,  would  have  been 
not  only  new  but  unthinkable.  So,  following  his 
fighter's  instinct,  without  one  look  aside,  he  dashed 
at  the  house  whence  the  volley  had  come,  as  he  would 
have  charged  an  enemy  battery. 

Mullen,  late  corporal  of  Coast  Artillery,  charged  after 
him,  but,  under  a  second  volley,  he,  too,  dropped,  with 
a  bullet  through  the  groin,  while  McHvain  slid  to  cover. 

Chambers,  meantime,  had  reached  the  house. 
Chambers  was  born  to  his  calling.  Odds  or  danger 
meant  nothing  to  him  —  or,  more  exactly,  they  acted 
as  spurs.  His  one  passion  was  to  win  through  —  to 
do  the  work  —  to  make  good. 

He  tried  the  door,  that  single  first-floor  opening  on 
the  side  whence  the  volleys  had  come.  The  door  was 
solidly  blocked  —  could  be  opened  only  by  bursting 
it  in.  And  with  the  discovery  came  another  thought. 
Under  its  inspiration  the  Trooper  ran  around  the 
house,  with  the  butt  of  his  revolver  smashing  the  lower 
windows  on  the  other  sides,  in  order  to  reach  the  cur- 
tains within.  These  he  jerked  off  their  rollers,  lest  later 
they  serve  to  screen  the  murderous  fire  of  gunmen,  as 
already  their  like  were  doing  above. 

"Now,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I'll  go  back  and  ram 
that  door." 

But  the  move  brought  him  near  to  the  body  of  his 
friend.  For  the  first  time  he  consciously  beheld  that 
tragic  sight.  Blood  was  flowing  from  Henry's  mouth. 
He  had  been  shot,  not  once,  but  several  times,  and  his 
attitude  showed  the  agony  he  had  endured. 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE       11 

An  instant  the  young  sailor  paused,  staring  his  heart 
away.  A  deathly  silence  prevailed  in  the  place.  The 
whole  town  might  have  been  holding  its  breath.  The 
upper  windows,  with  their  dropped  curtains,  gazed 
down  blank,  secret,  deadly,  like  heavy-lidded  Sphynx's 
eyes.  Chambers  took  a  step  forward. 

Then  some  unknown,  strained  to  the  snapping 
point,  screamed  out:  "Don't  do  it!  Don't!  They'll 
kill  you!" 

"I'm  going  to  get  him,"  Chambers  said,  in  an  odd 
flat  voice,  behind  his  teeth.  Every  word  carried,  as 
though  the  scene  had  been  a  stage. 

"You'll  stay  where  you  are!"  shouted  Logan  from 
the  power-house.  "Can't  you  see  he'll  be  dead  in  a 
minute?" 

Just  then,  with  a  last  convulsive  effort,  Henry 
moved  —  rolled  over  on  his  side.  And  his  voice,  al- 
ready faint  as  of  one  far  distant  on  a  long  journey, 
came  homing  back  to  his  friend :  — 

"Dick!  —  Dick! —  Are  you  going  to  leave  me 
here?" 

Nothing  could  have  held  the  sailor  then. 

"Jack!"  he  called,  and  the  yearning  of  his  cry 
reached  up  to  the  Gates  through  which  his  mate  was 
already  passing.  "Jack  !  Oh,  wait !  I  'm  coming,  boy ! " 

Thrusting  his  revolver  into  its  holster,  he  dashed 
into  the  open,  with  never  a  thought  for  his  own  life. 
He  reached  Henry's  side.  The  windows  remained 
blind  and  dumb.  He  turned  and  faced  them  squarely, 
hands  high  above  his  head  to  make  his  purpose  clear. 
Then  the  windows  spoke! 

Chambers    staggered  —  pulled    himself   together, 


12         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

reached  for  his  gun,  with  jaws  tight  set  and  with  eyes 
seeking  the  enemy.  He  must  get  one,  before  he  went 
—  just  one.  A  sheet  of  blood  flowed  over  his  face  like 
a  veil.  The  revolver  slipped  and  slid  from  his  grasp. 
Slowly,  slowly  he  crumpled  down  by  his  dead  com- 
rade's side. 

"Chambers!"  called  Logan;  "have  they  killed  you, 
man?" 

A  faint  movement  stirred  the  grey  heap  by  Hen- 
ry's side. 

"They  have  not!"  came  back  the  answer,  stiff  and 
defiant,  out  of  the  wrecked  and  bleeding  head. 

"Can  you  crawl?" 

".  .  .  Yes"  .  .  . 

There  were  eleven  buckshot  wounds  in  him  —  three 
through  the  lungs,  three  in  the  head,  one  through  an 
eye,  and  the  rest  hi  the  side  and  abdomen.  His  uni- 
form was  soaked  and  dripping  red.  His  face  was  un- 
recognizable. And  yet  the  lad  struggled  upright,  held 
himself  there  tottering  for  a  moment  while  with  a 
hand  he  dammed  the  blood  from  his  one  remaining 
eye,  and  then,  having  got  his  bearings,  walked  off 
down  the  hill  to  the  doctor's  office. 

Meantime  Mullen,  too,  had  hauled  himself  erect 
and,  with  the  dark  stream  spreading  down  his  thigh, 
had  limped  to  cover. 

No  fire  from  the  window  pursued  the  pair.  Per- 
haps those  behind  the  curtains  would  waste  no  more 
lead  on  men  as  good  as  dead. 

Sergeant  Logan  watched  them  go  —  saw  them 
reach  the  doctor's  house  and  enter.  Then  he  made  for 
the  telephone. 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE       13 

His  first  call  was  to  the  Punxsutawney  hospital,  for 
an  ambulance;  his  second  was  to  Barracks,  to  First 
Sergeant  Lumb. 

"Chambers,  Henry,  and  Mullen  are  shot.  Twenty 
or  more  men,  heavily  armed,  are  entrenched  in  the 
house  with  Walsach.  We're  needing  help." 

"Coming,"  answered  the  First  Sergeant. 

Five  minutes  later  Logan  was  struck  with  a  new 
thought.  The  impact  confounded  him. 

"Ass!  What  if  they  take  the  east  fork!  It  will  cost 
more  lives  yet.  And  now  it's  too  late  to  get  them!" 

At  Anita,  the  road  from  Punxsutawney  splits  into 
two  branches,  one  of  which,  the  upper  branch,  enters 
Florence  through  its  worst  section.  To  come  in  by 
that  route  would  be  to  expose  the  detachment  to  at- 
tack and  would,  furthermore,  necessitate  running  the 
gantlet  of  fire  from  the  infested  house,  to  reach  the 
point  where  Logan  and  his  men  were  now  planted. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  the  detail  came  in  by  the  sec- 
ond fork,  it  would  avoid  all  this  useless  danger,  striking 
into  the  main  street  of  the  town  below  the  doctor's 
office,  where  Logan's  men  could  join  it.  All  the  theatre 
of  trouble  would  then  be  up  the  hill  ahead. 

"I've  got  to  get  word  to  them,"  groaned  Logan. 

He  thought  of  the  population  of  Anita,  at  the  junc- 
tion of  the  roads.  Hopeless.  Fancy  one  of  the  people 
in  those  shacks  carrying  an  honest  message  to  officers 
of  police!  Then  he  remembered  the  tavern  of  the 
place  —  and  its  keeper,  a  Pole. 

"If  any  of  them  could  be  decent  about  it,  he  is  the 
man,"  thought  Logan,  "for  he  has  some  property  to 
anchor  him." 


14         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

So  Sergeant  Logan  called  up  the  "Palace  Hotel" 
at  Anita,  and  asked  that  a  reliable  person  be  sta- 
tioned at  once  at  the  forks  of  the  Punxsutawney  road, 
to  deliver  to  a  squad  of  State  Police,  about  to  pass, 
Sergeant  Logan's  request  that  they  take  the  lower 
fork  into  Florence. 

Then  Logan  hurried  down  to  the  doctor's  office  to 
look  after  the  wounded.  Mullen,  cool  and  quiet  though 
in  great  pain,  lay  as  the  doctor  had  placed  him  after 
applying  first  aid. 

Chambers,  even  as  he  entered  the  house,  had  walked 
up  to  a  large  oval  mirror  that  hung  in  the  hall,  and, 
tearing  open  his  blouse,  had  begun  at  once  to  examine 
his  own  wounds.  Those  in  his  body  were  flowing  inter- 
nally and  had  scarcely  stained  his  uniform,  although 
his  shattered  head  was  streaming  blood. 

"Oh,  come  and  lie  down! "  implored  a  woman  of  the 
family,  her  compassion  aglow  at  the  grisly  spectacle. 

"Tell  me  where  I  am  shot,"  persisted  Chambers, 
—  "and  get  me  a  gun.  Please  try  to  get  me  a  gun!" 

For  it  was  fixed  in  his  mind  to  patch  himself  up 
and  rush  back  into  the  fight. 

Then  the  doctor  came  and  led  him  to  a  couch. 

"You  have  about  hah*  an  hour  to  live,"  said  the 
doctor.  "There  is  nothing  that  I  can  do." 

When  Logan  saw  the  men,  "We'll  wait  for  no  am- 
bulance," said  he. 

Then  he  got  two  cots,  and  commandeered  the  trol- 
ley car  that  had  just  arrived.  That  trolley  car,  with 
the  cots  in  its  aisle,  by  order  made  no  stops  between 
Florence  and  the  Punxsutawney  hospital. 

Logan,   returning  to  the    power-plant,  detached 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE       15 

Koch  to  assist  him  in  watching  the  garrisoned  house 
until  the  arrival  of  the  reenforcements,  while  Mc- 
Ilvain  guarded  the  prisoners. 

The  reenforcements  were  not  slow  in  coming  up. 
When  Logan's  last  call  reached  Barracks  many  of 
the  Troop  were  scattered  over  the  countryside  on 
game  protection  duty  or  on  regular  patrol.  Others 
were  gone  here  and  there  on  diverse  errands.  But  the 
trumpets  sang  out  an  alarm,  and  in  a  very  few  min- 
utes fourteen  Troopers  in  uniform,  led  by  Sergeants 
Lumb  and  Marsh,  were  mounted  and  off,  dashing 
down  the  road  to  Florence.  Four  Troopers  more  over- 
took them  on  the  way,  and  they  rode  as  though  the 
horses,  too,  knew  all  that  depended  on  their  speed. 

At  Anita,  near  the  Palace  Hotel,  in  the  split  of  the  ,,- 
road,  a  dubious-looking  Pole  stood  waving  his  arms. 

"Take  the  lower  fork ! "  he  screamed.  " Mr.  Logan, 
he  say,  'Take  the  lower  fork!"' 

Lumb  eyed  the  man  with  strong  distrust. 

"Look  out  you  speak  the  truth,"  he  snapped.  "I 
shall  hold  you  to  this.  If  you  dare  to  trick  us,  you  '11  be 
sorry  till  your  dying  day!" 

But  the  expression  on  the  Pole's  face  supported  his 
words. 

"We'll  risk  it,"  said  Lumb. 

Just  twenty  minutes  from  the  moment  that  it 
cleared  the  Barracks  gates,  seven  miles  away,  the  de- 
tachment galloped  into  the  main  street  of  Florence. 

They  tied  their  lathered  and  panting  horses  well 
down  the  hill,  out  of  the  range  of  fire,  leaving  a  guard 
to  protect  them.  Meanwhile  the  First  Sergeant  as- 
sumed command. 


16         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Now,  if  there  had  been  any  doubt  as  to  the  fitness 
of  First  Sergeant  Lumb  to  assume  command,  a  glance 
at  his  Army  record  would  have  settled  it.  Twelve 
years  in  the  Regular  Army  it  shows,  in  Cavalry, 
Infantry  and  Coast  Artillery.  Discharged  sergeant- 
major —  of  course  "character  excellent."  Service  as 
post-instructor;  service  in  the  Philippines,  in  China, 
and  at  home;  twenty-seven  battles  and  engagements; 
a  string  of  official  comments,  such  as  "Excellent  man 
in  the  field";  and  then  medals  of  sorts,  Heaven  knows 
how  many! 

So,  First  Sergeant  Lumb,  having  duly  assumed 
command,  was  hearing  the  status  of  the  case  from 
Logan. 

"Well,"  Lumb  declared,  as  the  brief  outline  con- 
cluded, "there's  only  one  thing  to  do  —  do  some- 
thing hard  and  do  it  quick.  You  fellows,  get  around 
here  and  cover  the  plant.  Put  three  men  in  the  power- 
house —  two  at  the  little  windows  near  the  floor,  fac- 
ing the  place,  and  the  third  in  the  ventilating  window 
up  aloft.  Put  a  couple  of  men  in  that  house  on  the 
other  side.  Put  a  man  behind  that  box  car  on  the  sid- 
ing. Three  more  posts;  that'll  cover  it." 

As  the  stations  were  planted,  fire  from  the  house 
opened  with  ferocity.  The  garrison  was  using  rifles 
now,  and  the  practice  was  excellent.  It  was  as  much 
as  a  man's  Me  was  worth  to  show  himself  before  those 
windows. 

The  curtains  had  been  rolled  up.  Daylight  was 
fading.  Dusk  was  near.  The  rifle-men  kept  well  back 
in  the  room,  man  and  gun  out  of  sight.  No  flashes 
were  visible  at  the  windows  as  they  fired,  but  the  dim 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE       17 

chamber  filled  with  pulses  of  red  glow  as  the  weapons 
cracked  and  the  bullets  sang  here  and  there  wherever 
a  Trooper  stirred. 

"It  will  be  dark  in  a  few  minutes.  This  is  a  des- 
perate situation.  I'll  have  to  cut  'cross-lots,"  said 
Lumb  to  himself. 

He  sent  for  the  keeper  of  the  company  store.  "Who 
is  in  that  place?"  he  asked. 

The  other,  a  fine  old  Scot,  seemed  to  read  the  sol- 
dier's thought.  "Nobody,"  he  answered,  "but  them 
that  were  better  done  for." 

"How  much  dynamite  would  it  take?" 

"About  twenty  sticks." 

"  Will  you  get  it  for  me?" 

"With  the  verra  best  will  in  the  world  will  I."  And 
he  strode  away  on  the  welcome  errand. 

The  First  Sergeant  worked  out  his  idea.  He  would 
do  this  thing  himself,  of  course.  He  could  ask  no  one 
under  him  to  take  a  risk  so  great. 

"I'll  throw  the  box  in  at  the  door  opposite  the 
power-house,"  he  thought.  "I  can  be  there  in  about 
ten  seconds  and  with  a  two-minute  fuse  I  can  make 
it.  They'll  get  me  on  the  way  back,  most  likely  — 
but  I've  a  good  chance  to  do  my  work  first,  any- 
way." 

So  he  called  Sergeant  Marsh,  his  special  friend  and 
comrade,  and  told  his  plan.  "The  storekeeper '11  be 
back  with  the  dynamite  in  a  minute,"  he  finished. 
"Good-bye  and  good  luck  to  you,  Bill,  if  I  don't  see 
you  again." 

But  the  big  Sergeant  was  thinking.  "That's  all 
right,"  he  objected,  —  "sounds  mighty  fine  —  but  — 


18         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

how  if  there  should  be  any  women  and  children  up  there. 
Are  you  sure?" 

Lumb  stared  back  at  him.  "No,"  he  said,  slowly, 
"of  course  I'm  not  sure.  How  could  I  be?" 

"I've  just  heard  that  the  building  belongs  to  a 
woman,"  pursued  Marsh,  "and  that  she  lives  in  it. 
She  gets  out  Sunday  afternoons  and  gives  it  up  to  this 
crowd,  they  say.  But  who  knows  for  a  fact  that  she's 
not  there  now?" 

The  First  Sergeant's  plan  was  already  dead.  It 
would  not  do. 

"Then  we'll  have  to  charge  the  place,"  he  mut- 
tered. "God!  It's  an  awful  order  to  give!" 

"I'll  lead  the  charge,"  said  Marsh  simply. 

They  called  for  volunteers.  Nearly  every  man 
within  hearing  stepped  out.  They  selected  five. 

"The  rest,"  said  the  First  Sergeant,  "will  protect 
the  rush  by  directing  a  fire  on  the  windows.  Ready, 
men!" 

A  whistle  blew.  The  charge  began,  Marsh  leading. 
As  the  little  squad  rushed  for  the  door  that  was  the 
only  opening  in  the  lower  part  of  the  fighting  facade, 
a  raking  fire  burst  out  from  the  windows  above. 
But  its  accuracy  was  disturbed  by  the  covering  fusil- 
lade of  the  remaining  Troopers,  and  the  six  men  cross- 
ing the  open  space  reached  the  door  unscathed. 

Marsh  put  his  great  shoulder  to  it  —  the  bolt  gave 
—  the  panels  crashed.  Then,  like  an  arrow,  Private 
Zehringer  drove  past  his  leader  and  dashed  in. 

The  hall  was  small  and  dark  —  a  mere  cubicle  to 
contain  a  boxed  staircase  black  as  night  within  and  so 
narrow  that  two  persons  could  not  go  up  abreast. 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE   19 

Zehringer  made  a  jump  for  those  stairs,  Marsh  close 
on  his  heels  and  the  rest  crowding  after.  Two  steps 
at  a  time  Zehringer  mounted,  till  his  eyes  topped  the 
level  of  the  second-story  floor.  Then,  to  the  eyes  of 
the  others,  all  space  suddenly  filled  with  uproar  and 
flashing  flames,  while  something  heavy,  lunging  down, 
knocked  their  legs  from  under  them,  so  that  they 
landed  together  in  a  heap  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 

Something  large  and  loose  and  sagging,  sliding 
with  them,  stayed  in  a  heap  after  they  had  scrambled 
up.  For  a  moment  sulphurous  smoke  blinded  them. 
As  it  cleared  they  saw  Zehringer's  body  trailing  over 
the  lower  step.  Half  his  skull  was  shot  away. 

To  try  it  again  would  have  been  suicidal  folly.  The 
thing  was  too  simple  for  the  gunmen  above  —  to  cover 
the  little  stair  opening  with  their  many  rifles,  and,  at 
the  sight  of  a  head,  to  let  all  loose.  The  outcome  must 
be  always  the  same. 

Crowded  in  the  entrance  hall,  the  five  Troopers 
emptied  their  revolvers  at  the  ceiling  —  without  ef- 
fect. The  bullets  could  not  penetrate  the  boards. 
Nothing  remained  for  them  now  but  to  return  to  the 
power-house  shelter. 

"Here!  We  must  take  Zehringer,"  said  a  Trooper, 
stooping  to  lift  the  body. 

"No,"  commanded  the  Sergeant  sternly.  "Enough 
men  have  been  killed  to-day.  If  there  were  a  breath 
left  in  him,  it  would  be  another  thing.  Leave  him,  and 
get  away!" 

It  was  full  night  now,  and  the  heat  of  the  day  had 
exploded  in  storm.  Rain  was  descending  in  sheets. 
The  men  were  all  wet  to  the  skin,  blinded  by  driving 


20         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

masses  of  water,  thrashed  by  the  hounding  wind. 
Those  that  now  gathered  in  the  office  of  the  power- 
house stared  at  each  other  with  comprehending  eyes. 
Then-  hearts,  one  and  all,  were  heavy  within  them  — 
heavy  for  their  dead,  hot  with  desire  to  avenge  them, 
in  torment  to  strike.  Their  nerves  ground  on  edge. 
Inaction  was  agony.  But  what  should  they  do? 
What?  .  . . 

Suddenly,  out  of  the  pelting  black,  over  the  song 
of  the  storm,  rang  a  shriek,  a  howl  —  and  the  sound 
of  heavy  churning  up  the  grade.  Like  a  seal  rearing 
out  from  the  midnight  ocean,  a  big  motor  car  stuck 
her  glossy  nose,  dripping,  out  of  the  dark.  The  man 
at  the  wheel,  streaming  water  from  every  crease  of 
his  oil-skins,  threw  out  his  clutch,  threw  on  his  brake, 
and  strode  over  to  the  spot  where  the  Troopers  stood. 
They  knew  him  for  a  merchant  of  Punxsutawney. 

"Heard  you  were  in  trouble,"  he  said  heartily. 
"Thought  I'd  run  over  and  see  if  you  wanted  me." 

"  Want  you !  By  Jove,  I  think  we  do,"  exclaimed  the 
First  Sergeant.  "Will  you  take  one  of  my  Troopers 
back  to  Barracks  and  bring  out  our  carbines?" 

"Watch  me!  All  aboard!" 

The  big  car  turned  and  whizzed  away  into  the 
smother.  When  it  came  roaring  back,  joy  rode  with 
it.  Thirty  carbines  it  bore,  much  ammunition,  and,  as 
the  thought  of  the  Punxsutawney  man,  a  great  can 
of  hot  coffee,  and  sandwiches  many  and  thick. 

"My  home  people  hurried  up  to  do  that!"  he 
beamed,  as  he  handed  out  the  unexpected  provender. 

His  name  was  Des  Freas.  Later  he  became  burgess 
of  his  town.  And  he  was  a  man. 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE        21 

The  First  Sergeant  could  now  arm  his  command 
with  weapons  suited  to  the  work.  He  drew  his  circle 
of  guards  more  compactly,  and  he  stationed  men  on 
the  roofs.  All  night  long  they  kept  up  their  fire  on  the 
house.  All  night  long,  with  unflagging  fury,  the  house 
replied.  The  rain  came  down  in  a  deluge.  No  such 
storm  has  been  seen  in  that  region  since.  The  Troop- 
ers dripped  as  if  the  sea  flowed  over  them,  and  crashes 
of  thunder,  with  the  staggering  glare  of  lightning, 
added  confusion  to  the  scene. 

Throughout  it  all,  First  Sergeant  Lumb  steadily 
continued  making  the  round  of  the  posts — "be- 
cause," as  he  said,  "a  man  might  be  shot  between  any 
two  minutes,  and  lie  there  weltering  in  the  mud  and 
the  rain,  with  no  one  the  wiser." 

Once,  back  in  the  field,  he  found  a  post  empty  —  a 
post  where  he  had  placed  a  mounted  man,  and  so, 
with  fear  in  his  heart  for  what  hand  or  foot  might 
touch,  he  began  combing  the  dark. 

"Is  that  you,  Top?"  called  a  voice  from  a  little 
farther  on. 

"What  the  deuce  did  you  leave  your  place  for,  con- 
found you!"  The  Sergeant  snarled  like  a  surly  bear, 
because  of  exceeding  gladness. 

"Why  —  they  were  kicking  up  mud  between  my 
horse's  legs  with  their  bullets.  Shall  I  go  back?" 

"Oh,  stay  where  you  are,"  growled  the  Sergeant, 
"and  keep  awake!" 

Up  on  the  roof  just  opposite  the  citadel,  Privates 
Thomas  Casey  and  Charles  T.  Smith  were  conducting 
a  campaign  all  their  own.  Private  Casey  would  ma- 
noeuvre his  helmet  on  the  end  of  a  stick,  from  behind 


22         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

the  shelter  of  a  chimney.  Then,  when  the  big,  long 
lightning  flashes  came,  some  one  of  the  garrison  in 
the  house  would  jump  up  to  fire  at  that  helmet;  upon 
which,  by  the  same  wild  light,  Private  Smith  would 
snipe  at  the  marksman.  Then  the  two  Troopers, 
changing  roles,  would  start  again. 

At  each  white  flare,  faces  showed  at  the  windows 
—  not  always  the  same  faces  certainly;  the  Troop's 
gun  practice  was  better  than  that.  But  no  one  could 
swear  to  features  seen  by  such  mad,  fitful  gleams.  So 
the  pair  on  the  roof  toiled  on  in  faith  and  hope  rather 
than  in  certainty. 

Under  the  lee  of  a  box-car,  standing  on  a  siding 
some  thirty  feet  from  the  spot  where  Trooper  Henry 
fell,  Private  Kohut  spent  the  night  as  guard  of  that 
exit  from  the  scene. 

Whatever  may  have  happened  unperceived  by  him 
during  the  thick  of  the  tempest,  Private  Kohut  actually 
detected  no  one  passing  his  way  until  the  first  faint 
gray  of  dawn.  Then  his  straining  ears  caught  a  sound 
of  cautious  moving,  and  presently  he  could  discern  two 
figures  stealing  down.  When  they  were  almost  upon 
him,  he  suddenly  stepped  across  their  path.  Private 
Kohut  was  six  feet  two  inches  tall  and  built  for  service. 

The  two  snatched  at  their  gun  pockets,  but  their 
gesture  was  just  a  thought  less  quick  than  that  of  the 
big  Trooper.  Seizing  each  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck, 
he  knocked  their  heads  together  with  a  force  that 
dazed  them.  So  he  held  them,  limp  and  feebly  swear- 
ing, until  the  First  Sergeant  sent  to  gather  them 
in,  and  to  substitute  handcuffs  for  the  weight  of 
deadly  weapons  confiscated. 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE       23 

Now,  at  the  time  when  all  this  turmoil  began,  the 
officer  in  command  of  "D"  Troop,  Captain  Robin- 
son, was  absent  from  Barracks  and  at  a  distance.  As 
soon  as  its  serious  nature  appeared,  a  report  went  off 
to  him  by  telephone,  and  he  started  for  Florence  at 
once.  At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  arrived. 

The  scene  as  he  found  it  was  little  altered.  Henry's 
body  lay  in  the  power-house.  The  rain  had  stopped. 
The  fire  from  the  citadel  had  died  down,  but  the  last 
man  who  had  shown  himself  before  the  windows  had 
drawn  a  volley  of  lead.  Many  spectators  had  come 
over  from  Punxsutawney,  most  of  them  armed  and 
ready  to  do  their  part  if  required.  But  the  First 
Sergeant  was  troubled  by  their  presence,  and  had 
forbidden  the  further  running  of  trolley  cars  into  or 
through  the  town,  for  fear  of  injury  to  civilians.  As 
for  Florence  itself,  the  mass  of  its  population  was  liv- 
ing up  to  its  repute,  evincing  a  will  to  attack  at  any 
moment. 

The  Captain  heard  the  First  Sergeant's  report  in 
silence,  standing  under  the  lee  of  the  power-house  with 
a  cluster  of  Troopers  beside  him.  ...  "In  my  opinion 
the  place  should  now  be  dynamited,"  Lumb  con- 
cluded, "and  I  have  the  dynamite  ready,  too." 

"Where?"  asked  the  Captain. 

The  First  Sergeant,  by  way  of  answer,  turned  and 
reached  under  the  power-house  porch. 

"Here,"  said  he,  the  package  in  hand.  "Twenty 
sticks." 

"Lumb,  I'll  plant  this  dynamite  myself.  But  — 
we  can't  blow  the  place  up  with  Zehringer's  body  in 
it—" 


24         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Certainly  not,  sir." 

"Will  you  take  a  chance,  and  try  to  get  it  out?" 

The  First  Sergeant  turned  to  his  friend,  big  Ser- 
geant Marsh,  question  hi  his  eyes.  Every  essay  into 
the  open  that  had  thus  far  been  made  had  drawn  the 
windows'  deadly  fire.  It  was  a  desperate  risk  to  run. 

Marsh  assented  silently,  with  the  nod  that  his 
friends  know  well.  "I'll  see  you  through,"  it  said. 

More  or  better  no  man  could  desire. 

"Order  the  men  well  back,"  said  the  Captain. 
"Clear  a  big  ring.  One  stick  of  dynamite  will  bring 
down  a  couple  of  tons  of  coal  in  a  mine.  We  don't 
know  what  twenty  will  do  here.  Have  hah*  a  dozen 
Troopers  cover  the  windows.  When  you're  ready, 
we'll  make  the  dash  together." 

While  the  brief  debate  was  on,  the  clustered 
Troopers  had  listened  with  eager  ears.  But  at  the  end 
one  among  them,  Private  Lewis  Lardin,  could  bear 
no  more. 

"Top!"  he  cried,  breaking  forward,  the  old  Army 
nickname  for  all  first  sergeants  coming  unheeded  from 
his  lips;  "oh,  Top!  Let  me  take  your  place.  The  Troop 
needs  you  more  than  me!" 

Tears  were  running  down  the  boy's  face  as  he 
pleaded  with  all  his  honest  might.  His  hand  clutched 
his  sergeant's  sleeve,  shaking  with  the  intensity  of  his 
prayer.  But  Lumb,  for  the  reason  that  his  own  throat 
was  choked  with  emotion  roused  by  this  unexpected 
touch,  rapped  out  a  gruff  reproof. 

"Get  back  to  your  place,  will  you!  And  stay 
there." 

"Ready?"  asked  the  Captain  sharply. 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE       25 

"Ready,"  answered  the  friends. 

"Come  on!" 

The  three  stepped  out  —  dashed  for  the  citadel. 

The  spectators  literally  dared  not  breathe  as  the 
flying  figures  crossed  the  open.  Then  once  again  they 
saw  big  Sergeant  Marsh  put  his  shoulder  to  the  door 
and  drive  it  in,  for  the  garrison  had  barred  it  anew 
since  that  last  fatal  entry. 

Marsh  disappeared  from  sight,  Lumb  after  him, 
into  the  hall.  Poor  Zehringer's  body  now  lay  farther 
down  than  they  had  left  it,  doubled  and  cramped 
into  the  little  square  of  the  vestibule,  and  stiff  in  the 
rigor  of  death.  At  first  it  seemed  that  they  never  could 
twist  it  and  work  it  around  and  through  the  door.  It 
was  unyielding  as  marble  and  impossibly  bent.  And 
with  every  instant  they  expected  volleys  of  lead  to 
sweep  down  those  stairs. 

At  last,  with  a  tremendous  pull,  Lumb  taking  the 
body  by  the  legs,  Marsh  by  the  elbows,  they  wrenched 
it  free  into  the  doorway,  and,  so  carrying  it,  ran  for 
the  power-house  with  all  the  speed  they  could  make. 

As  they  dashed  out  of  the  door  with  their  burden, 
Captain  Robinson,  who  had  been  waiting  outside, 
dynamite  charge  in  hand,  walked  into  the  vestibule 
they  had  just  quitted,  placed  his  charge,  ignited  its 
fuse,  and  coolly  paused  in  the  doorway  to  light  his 
cigarette  with  the  remaining  flame  of  the  match.  Then 
he,  too,  made  for  cover. 

With  a  thick  roar,  the  charge  exploded.  The  build- 
ing trembled  and  partly  fell. 

Now,  hi  a  rush,  the  whole  detail  swept  down  upon 
the  place,  invading  every  section  of  it  at  once.  Some 


26         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

of  the  men  dashed  into  the  shop  that  occupied  half 
of  the  lower  story,  facing  on  the  farther  street.  A 
depot  of  miners'  supplies,  it  proved  to  be,  filled  with 
barrels  and  cans  of  oil,  kegs  of  powder,  and  various 
explosives.  But  not  a  human  being  was  there. 

Other  Troopers  ransacked  what  remained  of  the 
housekeeping  rooms  on  this  lower  floor.  Here  again 
was  no  creature,  but  here  was  an  indication  of  the 
means  by  which  many  had  escaped  during  the  latter 
part  of  the  siege. 

As  has  been  said,  the  house  stood  on  a  stone  founda- 
tion some  three  feet  high.  Beneath  the  floor  was  no 
cellar,  but  only  an  air-space,  provided  by  this  base. 
Out  from  the  air-space,  on  the  side  toward  the  railroad 
track  and  the  power-house,  passed  an  arched  dram, 
running  transversely  under  the  raised  railroad  bed, 
to  open  into  a  culvert  at  a  point  beyond  the  spot  where 
Henry  fell.  On  the  kitchen  floor  lay  an  old  short- 
handled  axe  that  had  obviously  been  used  to  rip  up 
the  flooring  boards  and  so  to  give  access  to  the  under- 
lying air-space  and  its  drain. 

By  this  means,  hi  all  likelihood,  had  the  two  varlets 
whose  heads  Trooper  Kohut  knocked  together  sprung 
up  before  him  out  of  the  shadows.  And  by  this  means, 
no  doubt,  did  many  another  murderer  or  would-be 
murderer  get  away  into  the  black  asylum  of  the 
storm. 

While  the  discovery  of  the  tunnel  was  being  made, 
Sergeant  Marsh,  followed  by  other  Troopers,  had 
driven  a  bee-line  for  the  fatal  stairs.  This  time  no 
sheet  of  flame  received  them  at  the  top,  and  though 
they  ransacked  the  rooms  of  the  second  story,  they 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE       27 

could  find  but  one  man  there.  Half-kneeling  still, 
he  crouched  by  the  window  just  as  he  had  been  crouch- 
ing to  fire  when  death  overtook  him  in  the  guise  of  a 
bullet  through  his  head.  But  here  and  in  the  other 
chambers  were  many  rules  and  shotguns  and  an 
amount  of  ammunition  that  would  have  sufficed  for 
many  men  to  withstand  a  siege  of  days. 

The  house  had  no  attic,  but  between  the  peak  of 
the  roof  and  the  rough  board  ceiling  of  the  second 
story  ran  a  triangular  air-space.  In  the  ceiling  of  the 
hallway,  giving  access  to  this  air-space,  yawned  a 
raw  hole  of  about  the  size  of  a  man's  body,  whose  fresh 
edges  showed  that  it  had  but  newly  been  hacked 
through  the  boards. 

With  a  spring,  one  young  Trooper  caught  the  edges 
of  the  hole  in  his  hands  and  was  about  to  haul  himself 
up  to  look  in,  when  a  heavy  jerk  on  his  belt  brought 
him  back  with  a  thud. 

>  "Young  man,  that's  what  that  hole  was  made  for 
—  for  you  to  stick  your  head  in,"  said  Sergeant  Marsh, 
giving  the  lad  a  shake  as  he  cast  him  loose.  "But  we  '11 
see  what's  in  that  attic,  all  the  same.  Casey,  come 
on.  Take  along  the  axe." 

Sergeant  Marsh  and  Private  Casey,  swarming  up 
outside  by  window-frame  and  cornice,  were  busy  on 
the  roof  chopping  through  the  shingles,  when  a  warn- 
ing shout  and  a  burst  of  flame  sent  them  sliding  to 
earth. 

As  they  landed,  an  inert  weight  struck  earth  beside 
them.  It  was  the  body  of  the  gunman  found  crouching 
in  the  window,  thrown  down  by  the  Troopers  to  save 
it  from  the  fire. 


28         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

The  house  was  now  untenable  for  another  moment. 
The  men,  pouring  out,  gathered  at  a  safe  distance  to 
watch  what  was  to  come. 

The  dynamite  explosion  had  in  some  way  started 
a  blaze.  The  blaze  flew,  sweeping  all  before  it.  As  it 
reached  the  d£pot  of  miners'  stores,  the  whole  place 
went  roaring.  The  roof  crashed  in,  pitching  down 
into  the  depths  of  the  pile.  As  it  went  the  bodies  of 
two  men,  whether  dead  or  alive  no  one  could  say,  fell 
out  of  its  sundered  air-space  and  dropped  before  it 
into  the  furnace  beneath. 

With  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  flames  and  with  the 
heavy  detonations  of  the  high  explosives  in  the  shop, 
came  a  rapid  and  fitful  rattle  of  slighter  discharges, 
as  store  after  store  of  small-arms'  ammunition,  con- 
cealed here  and  there  about  the  house,  responded 
to  heat  and  fire.  Thousands  of  rounds  in  this  way 
betrayed  themselves,  and  when,  as  presently  befell, 
the  whole  structure  sank  to  the  ground,  a  mass  of 
burning  embers,  the  heat  striking  down  into  the  nether 
air-space  exploded  several  hundred  rounds  more. 

First  Sergeant  Lumb,  as  the  body  of  the  dead  gun- 
man was  tossed  from  the  window,  had  ordered  it 
recovered  and  brought  to  a  place  of  safety.  Now 
that  there  was  time,  the  Troopers  stopped  to  look 
at  it. 

"That's  not  Walsach!"  said  Sergeant  Logan,  with- 
out enthusiasm. 

"But  I'll  tell  you  who  it  is,  though.  It's  Jim  Ta- 
bone,"  exclaimed  another. 

"Jim  Tabone  it  surely  is!"  a  third  and  a  fourth 
acquiesced. 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE       29 

Jim  Tabone  was  an  Italian  agitator,  who  had 
several  times  been  seized  by  "D"  Troop's  hand  for 
carrying  concealed  deadly  weapons  and  for  threats 
to  kill.  The  courts  had  fined  him  soundly  for  his  mis- 
demeanors, and  in  consequence  he  bore  a  lively  grudge 
against  the  Force. 

That  he  had  taken  his  part  in  the  fray  with  a  right 
good  will,  no  one  knowing  his  past  could  doubt.  That 
his  death  had  occurred  after  almost  all  his  mates  had 
fled  was  to  be  inferred  from  his  position  in  the  window. 
For  his  room  would  have  been  wanted  by  another 
marksman  had  his  end  come  earlier  in  the  fray. 

Tabone  himself,  as  a  soldier  in  the  Italian  Army, 
had  fought  in  Abyssinia  against  King  Menelik,  win- 
ning there  a  sharpshooter's  medal  of  which  he  was 
very  proud.  In  season  and  out  of  season  he  had  aired 
his  hatred  of  the  State  Police  to  all  his  world.  Here 
in  this  house,  on  this  wild  night,  he  had  without  doubt 
been  flaunting  his  determination  to  fight  them  to  a 
bloody  end. 

Where  could  there  be  a  finer  field?  What  more 
could  his  mad  heart  desire?  Here  was  good  entrench- 
ment, here  were  weapons  and  ammunition,  beyond  his 
utmost  need.  Here  was  the  enemy  deployed  before 
him  and  sure  to  stick. 

"I  know  Jim  Tabone,"  soliloquized  Sergeant  Marsh, 
as  he  stood  looking  down  on  the  dead  man's  face.  "I 
know  what  was  in  that  mind  of  his,  all  night  long. 
He  said  to  himself,  'This  is  my  Big  Chance.  This  is 
my  getting-off  place.  /'//  go  in  state!  And  he  was  as 
happy  as  a  king." 


30         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Then  the  detail  jumped  to  the  work  of  searching 
the  settlement  —  searching  every  house  in  which  par- 
ticipants might  be  lodged.  All  through  the  upper 
section,  where  the  vicious  element  clustered,  they 
gathered  sheaves  of  men.  Under  beds,  in  closets,  in 
coal-holes  and  wells  and  attics,  they  found  them  and 
dragged  them  forth  —  gnashing,  hating,  shaken  with 
doubts  and  fears.  And  every  man  of  them  carried 
hidden  arms. 

Meantime  First  Sergeant  Lumb,  with  a  squad  of 
five  Troopers,  was  riding  back  to  Anita  at  the  fork 
of  the  roads  —  to  the  Palace  Hotel,  to  the  dubious 
Pole,  to  his  neighbors  who  were  not  dubious  at  all. 
With  an  enveloping  swirl  they  assumed  the  place, 
plucked  from  it  those  ripe  for  the  plucking  and 
whisked  them  away  to  jail. 

Every  one  of  these  arrests,  whether  made  at  Flor- 
ence or  at  the  fork  of  the  road,  was  followed  by  con- 
viction on  such  charges  as  the  evidence  justified,  in 
the  next  term  of  court.  But  the  public  at  large  waited 
no  verdict  of  court  in  determining  its  own  attitude 
toward  the  affair.  There  were  sections  in  that  region 
where  scarcely  a  week  had  passed,  for  the  last  ten 
years,  without  the  occurrence  of  murder.  And  there 
was  no  section,  anywhere,  that  did  not  directly  or  indi- 
rectly suffer  danger,  uneasiness,  and  harm  by  the  im- 
pudent thrift  of  the  lawless  in  the  land. 

The  event  at  Florence,  by  one  stroke,  acquainted 
the  public  with  the  mettle  and  character  of  the  new 
Force,  and  made  every  honest  man  its  respectful 
friend.  For  the  Force  itself  it  performed  another  serv- 
ice: It  awakened  it  to  a  graver  and  wider  view  of  its 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  FORCE       31 

own  possibilities,  of  its  future  work,  and  of  the  ex- 
treme sacrifice  that  at  any  moment  might  be  asked 
of  it.  And  it  knit  the  brotherhood  together  by  bonds 
stronger  than  death. 

The  two  lives  given  at  Florence  were  its  first  blood- 
offering.  Since  that  day  many  a  Trooper  has  freely 
and  gallantly  laid  down  his  life  in  the  service  of  the 
State  of  Pennsylvania  and  of  the  Right.  And  every 
man  on  the  Squadron  hides  behind  his  straight  and 
quiet  gaze  in  the  knowledge  that  on  any  hour  of  any 
day  the  same  last  sacrifice  may  be  asked  of  him. 

When  that  hour  strikes,  he  will  give  not  less  gal- 
lantly, not  less  wholly,  than  did  those  who  are  gone 
before. 

First  Sergeant  Lumb,  having  served  with  honor 
through  all  intermediary  steps,  is  now  Deputy  Su- 
perintendent of  the  Force,  with  the  rank  of  Captain. 
He  is  also  a  member  of  the  bar  of  the  State. 

Private  Homer  A.  Chambers,  —  "Dick"  Cham- 
bers, as  half  the  State  calls  him,  —  with  scars  all  over 
his  body,  with  an  eye  shot  away,  and  still  carrying 
mementoes  within  him  in  the  form  of  balls  of  lead, 
now  serves  as  Sergeant  Chambers  of  Troop  "A." 
Countless  times  since  his  extraordinary  recovery  after 
the  Florence  fight  has  he  performed  valiant  service 
"  for  the  Major."  Countless  times  has  he  earned  the 
gratitude  of  all  good  men. 

Toward  those  who  so  barbarously  shot  him,  not  an 
atom  of  malice  remains  in  his  simple  heart. 

"What  fiends!"  exclaimed  one  listening  to  the 
tale. 

"Fiends!    Why,  no,"  said  Sergeant  Chambers,  in 


32         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

mild  expostulation  and  surprise.  "Good  fighting  ani- 
mals—that's all!" 

The  names  of  Henry  and  of  Zehringer  will  never 
be  forgotten  in  the  Squadron.  The  elder  officers  who 
were  their  friends  and  comrades  still  teach  their  story 
in  lowered  voices  to  succeeding  relays  of  recruits,  who 
learn  and  ponder  the  tale  until  it  is  as  if  the  two  were 
elder  brothers  barely  lost  to  sight. 

Henry,  a  quiet,  reserved,  and  most  courageous 
man,  had  been  a  general  favorite  with  the  Troop.  Zeh- 
ringer, who  was  of  French  extraction,  had  behind  him 
a  fine  record  of  service  in  the  Fourth  United  States 
Cavalry  and  the  Sixtieth  Coast  Artillery.  He  had 
served  against  the  Indians,  and  in  Cuba,  in  Alaska 
and  the  Philippines.  He  had  won  medals  for  life- 
saving,  medals  for  sharpshooting,  he  was  a  past- 
master  of  horsemanship;  but  his  comrades  loved  him 
above  all  as  one  who  was  never  so  happy  as  when 
helping  a  friend. 

It  was  big  Sergeant  Marsh  —  Lieutenant  now  and 
pillar  of  the  temple  —  who  said  just  the  other  day, 
with  the  shade  of  a  tremor  in  his  steady  voice:  — 

"The  Force  owes  a  lot  to  those  two.  As  for  the 
action  itself,  if  we  had  it  to  handle  again,  we  might 
handle  it  differently.  But  we  were  young  then,  all  of 
us,  with  much  to  learn.  And  those  two  bore  our  stand- 
ard that  day  —  planted  it  where  it  belongs.  They 
taught  us  to  hold  the  honor  of  the  Force  dearer  than 
life.  They  gave  then-  own  lives  to  do  it,  readily  and 
gladly  —  and  —  that's  all  any  man  can  give!" 


n 

"D"  TROOP  TIDIES  UP 

HILLSVILLE,  in  Lawrence  County,  is  a  little 
old-fashioned  country  village,  very  close  to  the 
Ohio  line.  A  mile  or  two  from  the  village  lies  a  great 
limestone  quarry,  and  this  limestone  quarry,  by  the 
time  when  this  story  begins,  had  already  drawn  about 
itself  a  dependent  population  of  considerable  size. 

The  quarry  workers  composing  the  settlements 
were  Italian,  almost  all.  With  the  exception  of  the 
foremen,  scarcely  an  American  was  to  be  found  there, 
and  the  life  that  went  on,  as  far  as  might  be,  was  a 
life  from  across  the  seas. 

A  veil  of  white  dust  forever  covered  the  place,  mak- 
ing £ach  roof  and  ledge  and  path  look  as  though 
smothered  in  ashes.  The  few  trees  and  shrubs  that 
remained  were  blighted  and  hoary.  No  natural  beauty 
could  survive  that  ghostly  pall.  Yet  the  dark-faced 
multitude  lived  in  contentment  at  its  work,  and, 
ashen  and  arid  though  the  face  it  wore,  the  quarry 
settlement  was  prosperous  enough.  Its  people  laid  up 
money,  lived  as  well  as  they  cared  to  live,  married 
comfortably,  reared  multitudinous  children,  and  of 
an  evening  sang  and  danced  and  strolled  to  the  tune 
of  their  own  guitars.  All  went  well. 

Then  the  serpent  crept  into  the  place,  plural-headed, 
in  the  guise  of  evil  men.  And  these  evil  men,  by  twos 
and  threes  but  not  in  cohesion,  fell  upon  the  people 


34          THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

with  malice  and  fury,  so  that  their  peace  was  no 
more. 

The  old  life  sank  away  fast.  The  bandits  clutched 
it  by  the  throat.  In  place  of  the  old  easy  rivalry  in 
display  of  improving  fortunes,  came  a  fear  to  let  it  be 
seen  that  anything  better  than  poverty  reigned  in  the 
house.  Robberies  and  extortions  went  on  with  in- 
creasing boldness.  Resistance  was  punished  by  death. 

At  first  the  penalty  was  inflicted  under  cover  of 
night.  The  man  or  woman  who  dared  refuse  a  demand 
for  tribute  was  shot,  through  the  window  of  the  home, 
and  dropped  forward  across  the  supper-table,  dead, 
under  the  evening  lamp.  Then  people  lighted  no 
lamp,  and  spent  their  evenings  behind  barred  doors, 
shivering  in  the  dark. 

After  that  came  a  worse  stage  yet,  when  light  or 
darkness  made  no  odds,  when  dynamite  bombs  burst 
any  bars,  and  when  even  in  broad  sunshine  men  who 
ventured  afield  alone  were  found  lying  stiff  in  the 
highroad  with  queer  holes  in  then*  backs.  Then  the 
place  named  itself  "Helltown"  —  and  the  name,  be- 
ing pertinent,  stuck. 

For  a  tune  the  people  in  the  old  country  village  of 
Hillsville  —  native  Americans,  original  holders  of  the 
land  —  looked  on  at  all  this  as  no  concern  of  theirs. 
These  strange  folk,  speaking  a  strange  tongue,  think- 
ing strange  thoughts,  were  sojourners  only.  They 
preyed  upon  each  other  —  robbers  and  robbed,  slay- 
ers and  slam.  They  lived  their  own  separate  lives. 
And  eventually  they  went  back  across  the  seas,  tak- 
ing their  gains  and  their  ways  with  them,  leaving  no 
mark  behind. 


D  TROOP  TIDIES  UP  35 

Then,  little  by  little,  the  sound  old  Hillsville  farm- 
ers began  to  reconsider  their  view.  It  was  true  that 
the  quarry  settlement,  in  the  life-experience  of  the 
average  settler,  was  only  a  point  in  a  circle  starting 
in  Italy,  and  returning  to  Italy  again.  But  the  in- 
dividual swinging  away  to  complete  his  circle  was 
always  replaced  by  the  individual  who  arrived.  The 
field  for  criminal  operation  remained  intact.  The 
criminal  type  induced  was  imaginative,  piratical,  free. 
And  it  was  operating  unchecked. 

In  Italy  there  was  a  strong  and  vigilant  police 
power,  exercised  over  the  entire  kingdom,  rural  and 
urban  alike.  That,  indeed,  was  the  very  reason  why 
many  of  the  Italians  were  here  —  to  escape  Italian 
justice.  Having  come  here,  they  found  by  bold  and 
bolder  experiment  that  not  even  the  greatest  excesses 
of  lawlessness  in  which  they  could  indulge  would  evoke 
any  sign  of  real  life  on  the  part  of  outraged  Govern- 
ment. 

These  people  were  neither  stupid  nor  unambitious. 
Given,  then,  their  peculiar  standards,  was  it  likely 
that  they  would  long  content  themselves  with  such 
lean  picking  as  they  could  tweak  from  each  other, 
when  the  wealth  of  whole  countrysides  lay  ready  to 
their  hand? 

And  what  had  Hillsville  to  oppose  to  their  out- 
reaching?  Hillsville,  like  any  other  country  village,  had 
its  constable.  And  the  constable,  relic  of  an  ancient 
Arcadian  day  when  crime  was  rare,  when  men  were  of 
one  blood,  and  when  public  opinion  brought  iron  force 
to  back  the  law  —  the  constable  was  as  powerful 
against  Helltown  as  a  reed-bird  against  a  typhoon.  .„ 


36         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Something  must  be  done.  Helltown  was  not  filled 
with  demons.  All  but  a  few  of  its  denizens  were  quiet, 
decent  folk  in  their  way.  And  in  any  case  they  were 
entitled  to  the  protection,  the  execution,  of  the  law 
of  the  land.  Moreover,  Hillsville  itself,  when  it  came 
really  to  think  of  it,  did  not  care  to  await  the  bite 
of  the  stiletto  before  looking  to  the  safety  of  its  own 
place  in  the  sun. 

So  Hillsville  turned  and  confronted  the  county: 
What  would  the  county  do? 

First,  there  was  the  sheriff;  this  was  a  sheriff's  job. 
And,  as  every  experienced  person  knew,  it  was  ridicu- 
lous and  unjust  to  expect  the  sheriff  to  handle  it  with 
the  means  at  his  command.  Practically  all  the  evi- 
dence, in  any  individual  instance  that  he  might  choose 
to  pursue,  would  be  found  to  lie  in  Italian  hands.  The 
Italians,  having  been  used,  on  the  one  side,  to  see 
American  law  and  law  officers  ignored,  having  been 
used,  on  the  other  side,  to  see  their  own  brigands 
exercise  wrath  with  a  sure  and  deadly  stroke  —  the 
Italians,  under  such  circumstances,  could  scarcely 
hesitate.  They  would  refuse  to  help  the  impotent 
American  law  officers,  since  to  do  so  was  fruitlessly 
to  endanger  their  own  lives.  They  would  refuse  to 
anger  the  potent  criminal  who,  if  only  as  a  matter  of 
business,  would  make  his  revenge  sure. 

Moreover,  if  by  any  off  chance  a  suspect  should  be 
singled  out  for  arrest,  he  had  only  to  slip  over  the 
border  into  another  county  or  across  the  State  line. 
And  then,  who  was  to  bear  the  expenses  of  the  pur- 
suit? County  funds,  like  county  power,  are  available 
only  within  the  county.  Was  it  reasonable  to  expect 


D  TROOP  TIDIES  UP  37 

the  poor  sheriff  to  pay  out  of  his  own  pocket  for  the 
pleasure  of  getting  himself  assassinated  later  on,  by 
the  criminal's  friends,  while  the  criminal  himself  gaily 
followed  his  calling  in  safe  contiguous  fields? 

As  to  the  District  Attorney,  he  was  no  whit  better 
off.  He  had  no  detective  force  meet  to  cope  with  a 
task  like  this.  Moreover,  in  a  county  largely  rural, 
normally  peaceful,  and  not  rich,  it  would  be  burden- 
some beyond  reason  to  impose  upon  the  taxpayers 
charges  for  the  maintenance  of  competent  county  de- 
tectives whose  services,  however  seriously  needed  at 
rare  intervals,  were  in  general  not  needed  at  all. 

But  the  District  Attorney  of  Lawrence  County, 
Mr.  Young,  was  an  official  of  calibre.  Despite  the 
odds  against  him  he  took  up  the  task  like  a  man  and 
went  ahead  as  best  he  could.  That  best,  owing  to  the 
intelligence  and  to  the  conscientious  hard  work  that 
he  put  into  the  thing,  surpassed  all  likelihood.  But  it 
stopped  short  of  producing  evidence  sufficient  to  con- 
vict, nor  by  any  effort  could  it  attain  that  point. 

So  District  Attorney  Young  having  done  his  level 
utmost,  appealed  for  help  to  the  State,  and  the  State 
sent  him  her  own  Police. 

"D"  Troop  furnished  the  detail;  and  that  detail 
came  guided  by  the  sort  of  wisdom  that  men  must 
employ  when  two  hundred  and  twenty-eight  of  them 
handle  the  troubles  of  sixty-five  counties. 

Here,  it  reasoned,  was  an  entirely  Italian  people, 
Italian  of  experience  and  of  thought;  used,  in  the 
country  of  its  birth,  to  see  the  Law  riding  imposingly 
armed,  in  the  uniform  of  the  King,  daily  before  its 
eyes;  used  to  Law  made  visible  and  dread.  This  people, 


38         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

transported  to  America,  discovered  here  no  outward 
sign  of  law  at  all.  Nowhere  was  there  any  one  wearing 
Government  uniform,  and  the  worst  crimes  in  the 
category,  committed  again  and  again  in  the  broad 
light  of  day,  failed  to  tease  forth  any  evidence  of  the 
existence  of  law  in  the  land.  Therefore  they  assumed 
a  perfectly  natural  and  perfectly  literal  interpre- 
tation of  the  well-worn  phrase  "the  Land  of  the 
Free." 

Reviewing  these  facts,  the  officers  of  Troop  "D" 
concluded  that  psychology  indicated  an  open  parade 
of  force.  Therefore,  after  a  little  quiet  preliminary 
work  to  test  and  confirm  the  District  Attorney's  ob- 
servations, they  decided  to  despatch  the  detail  di- 
rectly into  Helltown,  not  secretly,  but  in  the  most 
conspicuous  manner  possible. 

So,  one  pleasant  summer  evening  just  at  the  sup- 
per-hour, when  every  denizen  of  the  place  was  at 
home  to  see,  First  Sergeant  William  Marsh,  late  Ser- 
geant of  United  States  Marines,  big,  handsome, 
every  inch  a  soldier,  and  as  malleable  of  mien  as  a 
ledge  of  granite  in  place,  rode  straight  down  the 
middle  of  Helltown's  main  street.  He  wore  the  sombre 
uniform  of  the  State  Police,  and  wore  it  with  that 
punctilous  regard  for  every  button  and  hook  that, 
in  itself,  conveys  the  thought  of  unity  and  discipline. 
His  big  service  revolver  hung  in  his  full-filled  car- 
tridge belt,  and  he  sat  his  horse  as  though  the  horse 
and  he  were  one. 

Behind  this  awakening  figure  rode  eight  others  like 
unto  him,  except  for  the  chevrons  on  the  sleeve.  And 
all  Helltown  craned  at  its  windows,  crowded  to  its 


HODE  STRAIGHT  DOWN  HELLTOWN's  MAIN  STREET 


D  TROOP  TIDIES  UP  39 

porches,  rushed  out  into  the  street  to  follow  the  course 
of  the  cavalcade  with  stupefied  gaze. 

As  for  the  Troopers  themselves,  they  seemed  un- 
aware that  Helltown  was  peopled  at  all.  They  carried 
their  eyes  straight  ahead  with  impersonal  vision  fixed 
down  the  aisles  of  time. 

The  destination  of  the  detail  was  an  old  one-room 
cabin,  well  within  the  settlement  and  kin  to  half  the 
buildings  in  the  place.  It  had  stood  for  some  time 
empty  and  unused,  and  nine  army  cots,  a  table  or 
two,  and  a  few  chairs  now  constituted  its  only  fur- 
niture. 

Both  in  character  and  in  location,  this  abode  had 
been  chosen  in  order  to  induce  approach  by  the  people 
of  the  place.  If  a  man  brooding  on  troubles  and  wrongs 
should  suddenly  muster  up  courage  to  air  those  wrongs 
to  the  police,  he  could  slip  into  this  inconspicuous  and 
centrally  located  cabin  under  cover  of  darkness,  tell 
his  tale,  get  advice,  and  merge  away  again  into  the 
night,  leaving  no  gossip  the  wiser  for  his  boldness. 
Whereas,  if  the  detail  had  been  comfortably  housed 
outside  the  settlement,  every  man  who  ventured  near 
it  would  have  been  marked  by  spying  eyes. 

This  easy  accessibility,  coupled  with  the  sense  of 
power  and  the  power  of  the  Law  that  the  State  uni- 
form and  the  soldierly  bearing  of  the  Troopers  in- 
duced, soon  took  its  full  effect.  Helltown  itself  was 
bitterly  tired  of  its  bondage.  A  sign  of  real  deliver- 
ance, of  the  shadow  of  a  rock  to  which  it  might  safely 
fly,  was  more  than  welcome  to  its  eyes.  After  the  first 
period  of  doubt  and  self-assuring,  its  courage  grew 
apace. 


40          THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

The  new  Presence  induced  a  gradual  return  to  modes 
of  life  that  of  late  had  ceased  to  exist.  Finding  that 
the  kindly  carabinieri  would  freely  give  their  power- 
ful services  in  protection,  the  people  ventured  to  make 
fiestas,  to  celebrate  weddings,  to  do  a  hundred  pleas- 
ant things  dear  to  their  hearts,  but  from  which  they 
had  been  debarred.  And  they  hated  their  oppressors 
with  a  new  courage  and  a  new  activity.  Victims  of 
criminal  tyranny  stole  night  after  night  to  the  shack, 
and  one  of  the  detail  who  speaks  all  Italian  dialects, 
was  kept  busy  in  translating  their  complaints. 

At  last  First  Sergeant  Marsh  knew  that  he  had 
evidence  enough  in  hand  to  warrant  arrests,  which, 
in  the  code  of  the  Force,  means  evidence  sufficient  to 
convict.  Then  he  suddenly  flung  his  net  and  drew  it 
sharply  in  again  with  twenty-three  man-eaters  floun- 
dering helpless  in  its  toils. 

Needless  to  add,  they  were  indignant  man-eaters, 
and  eloquent  concerning  the  farce  of  American  democ- 
racy. But  all  of  them  went  to  the  county  jail. 

This  work  had  been  accomplished  in  exactly  six 
weeks  and  three  days.  As  a  prompt  result  the  twenty- 
three  outlaws  were  tried,  convicted,  and  sent  to  the 
penitentiary  for  terms  of  from  three  to  ten  years; 
almost  a  hundred  other  dubious  characters  fled  from 
the  region;  and  the  quarry  settlement  comfortably 
resumed  its  old  character  as  a  peaceful,  happy,  and 
prosperous  little  community. 

Meantime,  the  wheel  of  life  had  been  whirring 
rapidly  over  all "  D  "  Troop's  wide  territory.  Demands 
for  help  of  every  kind  had  kept  the  command  jump- 
ing, and  no  sooner  had  Sergeant  Marsh  cast  out  the 


D  TROOP  TIDIES  UP  41 

devils  from  Helltown  than  he  must  answer  the  long 
reiterated  and  desperate  call  of  the  District  Attorney 
of  Mercer,  the  adjoining  county. 

The  town  of  South  Sharon,  in  the  valley  of  the 
Shenango,  contained  great  steel  mills  in  which  large 
numbers  of  Italians  were  employed.  Out  of  the  Latin 
population  had  arisen  many  men  of  abler  parts  who, 
by  one  means  or  another,  had  amassed  little  fortunes 
of  from  ten  to  thirty  thousand  dollars  or  more.  These 
now  continued  amply  to  prosper,  whether  as  fruit- 
dealers,  merchants,  vintners,  or  bankers,  and,  taken 
with  the  solid  background  of  the  daily  wage-earners 
behind  them,  they  furnished  an  ideal  public  for  a  Black 
Hand  King. 

Therefore  there  came  a  Black  Hand  King,  who, 
under  the  misleadingly  easy-sounding  name  of  "Mike 
Portolessi,"  laid  a  bloody  sceptre  along  the  Shenango 
Valley. 

Mike  Portolessi  staged  himself  with  care.  He 
dressed  elaborately,  and  rarely  appeared  in  public 
except  in  a  frock  coat  and  a  silk  hat.  He  wore  a  great 
and  fierce  mustache,  which  did  not  conceal  the  many 
knife  wounds  in  his  face.  His  bearing,  quite  correctly, 
was  the  bearing  of  a  man  of  affluence.  His  manner 
was  extremely  smooth  and  courteous,  and  he  gave  the 
impression  of  intelligence  and  of  poise.  He  spent 
money  with  a  free  hand.  He  was  known  to  be  ab- 
solutely fearless  and  cool,  and  although  the  pistol 
was  his  favorite  weapon,  he  was  a  past-master  with 
the  stiletto  and  had  come  off  victor  in  many  duels 
fought  with  that  terrible  tool.  Every  Italian  in  the 
place  not  only  addressed  him,  but  spoke  of  him  as 


42         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Mr.  Portolessi"  —  and  every  one  of  them,  from  the 
first  to  the  least,  swept  off  his  hat  as  Portolessi  passed. 

His  supremacy  had  been  established  in  the  simplest 
way  in  the  world.  On  his  initial  appearing  in  the  place 
Mike  had  spent  a  little  time  in  quiet  inquiry  as  to  the 
financial  condition  of  certain  members  of  the  Italian 
colony.  Then,  one  by  one,  he  had  sent  for  a  selected 
number  of  those  whose  names  stood  on  his  list,  and 
had  explained  to  them  his  plans.  He  was  come,  he 
said,  to  represent  the  Mafia  hi  the  Shenango  Valley, 
and  would  now  proceed  in  due  order  to  organize  the 
local  branch.  "You,"  he  would  announce  to  the 
man  of  the  moment,  "will  be  assessed  five  hundred 
dollars  membership  fee.  You  will  pay  it  to  me,  here, 
to-morrow." 

"But  —  but  — "  the  other  would  flounder. 

"But,"  Mike  would  conclude  urbanely,  "other- 
wise you  will  certainly  be  killed.  As  representing  The 
Society  I  shall  see  to  that!" 

Sometimes  he  made  the  membership  fee  only  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  tempering  it  to  the  means 
of  the  candidate;  sometimes  he  increased  it  to  four 
times  that  sum.  But  in  any  case  the  bank  of  the 
"local"  was  his  own  bottomless  pocket,  and  what 
went  into  it  never  came  out  except  for  Mike's  per- 
sonal ends.  He  kept  a  little  stream  trickling  back  to 
Italy,  to  make  a  golden  setting  for  his  latter  days. 
He  diverted  a  runlet  to  the  upkeep  of  a  disseminated 
harem  in  the  land  of  his  sojourn.  The  rest  he  spent 
on  his  pet  diversion,  gambling;  or  on  any  flitting 
pleasure  that  the  moment  chanced  to  suggest. 

Some  of  the  most  important  members  of  his  "  local," 


D  TROOP  TIDIES  UP  43 

perhaps  two  or  three,  received  a  small  percentage 
of  the  levies  paid  in.  These  men  would  be  the 
most  forward  lieutenants.  But  those  who  received  no 
part  of  the  booty  labored  as  hard,  for  they  worked, 
after  all,  for  their  very  lives,  forfeit  to  Portolessi  at 
Portolessi's  will. 

On  several  occasions  it  had  been  necessary  to  make 
the  truth  of  the  forfeit  clear  to  the  people.  Then  the 
doubter  had  been  "invited"  to  the  house  of  the  King, 
formally  slain  there,  and  buried  in  the  cellar,  with 
such  ceremony  as  should  make  it  plain  that  this  was 
no  nervous  and  hasty  deed,  but  the  due  and  inevitable 
procedure  of  The  Society. 

The  cellar  of  the  King's  house  thereby  became  a 
sort  of  ritual  chamber,  endued  with  spiritual  presences 
that  powerfully  assisted  in  the  solemnity  of  the  place. 
When  a  man  was  found  so  incredulous  or  so  self- 
sufficient  and  rash  as  to  refuse  the  tribute  demanded, 
that  man  was  brought  into  the  King's  cellar  in  dead 
of  night.  There,  in  the  presence  of  the  leaders  and 
neophytes  of  the  "local,"  he  was  shown  the  graves 
already  occupied.  Then  a  pick  and  shovel  were  put 
into  his  hand,  his  length  and  breadth  were  marked 
out  on  the  earthy  floor,  and  he  was  ordered  to  dig 
a  grave  for  himself. 

Upon  that,  if  he  still  persisted  in  his  defiance,  he 
was  duly  extinguished  and  covered  down. 

The  report  of  these  things  spread,  through  the  wire- 
less of  the  colony,  just  as  Portolessi  designed.  And, 
in  spreading,  it  induced  a  united  and  instructed  pub- 
lic spirit  that  greatly  simplified  Portolessi's  work. 
Progress  along  educational  lines  was  particularly 


44          THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

gratifying  to  the  King,  because  it  relieved  him  of  the 
crude,  ungraceful  necessity  of  violence.  Complete  un- 
derstanding was  all  that  was  needed,  he  urged  with 
affable  insistence.  With  complete  understanding  all 
cause  for  unpleasantness  would  disappear. 

In  this  way  he  was  able  quite  peaceably  to  drop  in 
one  morning  upon  an  old  half-blind  Italian  cobbler, 
who  sat  in  his  leather  apron  among  strange  smells 
and  heaped-up  patches  mending  a  laborer's  boot. 

"Buon'  giorno,  Salvatore,"  —  the  King  was  in  a 
midsummer  mood,  —  "Salvatore,  my  friend,  do  me 
a  favor.  Just  get  your  bank  book  and  take  a  little 
stroll  with  me." 

The  cobbler  knew  not  what  it  meant  —  but  his 
wretched  heart  turned  to  water  and  ran  away. 

"This  boot  —  I  promised  it  to  Luigi  Tutino,  faith- 
fully, for  noon  ..." 

"Luigi  Tutino  will  be  glad  to  wait.  You  will  tell 
him  it  is  my  business.  Make  haste." 

The  miserable  cobbler  did  exactly  as  he  was  bid. 
He  was  a  feeble  old  man.  His  old  wife  lay  always 
ailing  in  her  bed.  His  only  child  was  a  charge  upon 
him.  This  passbook  was  his  best  and  solitary  friend. 
The  sum  recorded  in  it  stood  for  the  painful,  patient 
self-denial  of  many  years.  His  under  lip  trembled  and 
his  hands  were  wet  and  cold  as  he  crossed  the  threshold 
into  the  street. 

Chatting  in  his  cheerful  style,  returning  affably  the 
solicitous  bow  of  each  Italian  on  the  way,  Portolessi 
led  the  cobbler  straight  to  his  bank. 

"Now,  my  dear  friend,"  said  he,  as  they  two  side 
by  side  entered  the  bank  door,  "you  will  hand  in  that 


D  TROOP  TIDIES  UP  45 

passbook,  and  you  will  say  to  the  cashier  that  you 
want  to  withdraw  all  your  money  —  */  will  take  my 
entire  balance.9  So,  speak!" 

The  cobbler,  in  his  tattered  overalls,  again  obeyed. 
His  face  was  gray,  deathly.  His  poor  old  toil- wrenched 
fingers  clung  shaking  to  the  little  book  —  released 
it  slowly  within  the  grill,  as  with  a  lingering  last 
caress. 

The  King,  in  his  shining  silk  hat  and  his  grand 
frock  coat  with  a  scarlet  flower  in  the  buttonhole, 
stood  at  the  window  by  the  cobbler's  side,  bland, 
suave,  radiating  affluence,  watching  the  teller  count 
out  the  bills.  The  teller  recounted,  shoved  the  sheaf 
through. 

"Two  hundred  and  sixty-five,  exact,"  said  he. 

Portolessi  picked  up  the  bills  and  deftly  ran  them 
over  again. 

"Two  hundred  and  sixty-five.  Right,  thank  you," 
he  acquiesced  in  his  usual  courteous  way.  "Come 
now,  my  dear  Salvatore.  Sign  the  receipt.  You  must 
get  back  to  Luigi  Tutino's  boot!" 

He  was  folding  the  greenbacks  into  his  own  pros- 
perous purse,  as  he  spoke.  And  the  cobbler  would 
no  more  have  dared,  either  then  or  at  any  later  time, 
to  raise  the  question  with  him  than  he  would  have 
dared  to  dispute  with  the  Angel  of  Death. 

Anna  Ruffino,  wife  of  a  rich  and  respectable  Italian, 
unaffiliated  with  The  Society,  did  dare  to  refuse  the 
demand  of  one  of  the  King's  messengers,  delivered 
at  her  own  door  one  August  afternoon.  The  demand 
was  for  one  hundred  dollars  in  cash,  desired  for  The 
Society's  use.  The  next  afternoon,  before  the  eyes  of 


46         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

the  whole  street,  Anna  Ruffino  was  shot  down  in  the 
open  highway,  while  her  husband  at  her  side  was 
badly  wounded.  Such  was  the  comment  of  the  King, 
delivered  by  the  selfsame  messenger. 

Similar  incidents  happened  not  once  but  hundreds 
of  times,  and  through  a  chain  of  years.  And  then  a 
not  unusual  thing  occurred;  a  little  revolution  started 
in  the  ranks. 

The  plausible  face  of  the  affair  was  a  natural  out- 
burst on  the  part  of  the  victimized  Italians  against 
the  sleek  vampire  that  so  long  had  feasted  on  their 
blood.  But  the  probable  underlying  truth  was  that 
some  younger  would-be  Black  Hand  King,  envious 
of  Portolessi's  fat  prosperity,  plotted  his  overthrow; 
and  that  this  aspirant,  endowed  with  superior  initia- 
tive and  courage  and  spurred  by  his  secret  ambition, 
excited  and  led  on  the  rest. 

They  got  together  secretly,  armed  themselves  with 
rifles,  moved  under  cover  of  darkness  upon  the  King's 
house  at  an  hour  when  the  leaders  of  the  "local"  were 
known  to  be  in  conclave  there,  and  opened  a  cross- 
fire upon  the  windows.  Well  enough  they  knew  how 
the  thing  should  be  done.  But,  although  they  killed 
two  adepts  and  wounded  a  third,  Portolessi  himself 
escaped,  getting  utterly  away  into  the  unknown. 

Then,  indeed,  terror  set  in.  They  had  attempted 
regicide  and  the  King  remained  free  and  unscathed. 
Their  punishment  loomed  sure.  No  better  than  dead 
men  were  they,  one  and  all. 

But  the  immediate  effect  of  the  affair  was  to  drive 
the  District  Attorney  of  Mercer  County  to  another 
and  more  desperate  call  for  help  from  the  State  Police. 


D  TROOP  TIDIES  UP  47 

It  came,  by  chance,  just  as  Sergeant  Marsh,  over 
in  Helltown,  had  swept  his  twenty-three  man-eaters 
into  the  Lawrence  County  jail.  It  was  still  his  duty  to 
maintain  a  supporting  hand  upon  the  young  regenera- 
tion of  the  quarry  settlement,  but  as  South  Sharon 
was  not  beyond  riding  distance  away,  this  could  be 
done  while  working  from  a  centre  in  the  latter  place. 
So  the  "D"  Troop  detail  was  moved  from  Helltown 
to  South  Sharon,  where  it  took  up  its  quarters  in  a 
small  hotel. 

The  problem  here  differed  from  that  of  the  quarry 
settlement  in  many  ways.  South  Sharon  was  a  bor- 
ough of  some  ten  thousand  inhabitants.  Its  Black 
Hand  organization  was  well  defined,  and  the  chronic 
irritation  of  that  presence  had  newly  induced  an  acute 
outbreak,  as  has  been  seen.  The  case  was  ripe  for 
rapid  action,  before  present  heat  should  be  reab- 
sorbed. 

Sergeant  Marsh  proceeded  first  to  find  an  Italian 
conversant  with  the  inner  history  of  the  affair.  Not 
over-innocent  himself,  this  man  could  not  neglect  an 
opportunity  to  serve  the  State  in  what  might  be  the 
State's  hour.  From  him  the  Sergeant  learned  the 
names  of  many  Italians  who  had  been  levied  upon  by 
Portolessi  and  his  gang.  These,  in  turn,  would  now 
speak  to  Sergeant  Marsh  —  to  an  officer  of  the  State 
Police  —  with  a  confidence  impossible  toward  any 
other  human  being  in  their  known  world.  He  came 
clothed  in  the  bright  prestige  of  success.  He,  and  the 
officers  under  him,  with  the  Power  back  of  them,  had 
but  just  attacked  Italian  outlaws  on  their  own  estab- 
lished ground,  and  had  triumphantly  won. 


48         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Everywhere  in  the  Commonwealth,  moreover,  the 
new  Force  was  performing  like  feats  —  was  proving 
with  deadly  strokes  the  actual  existence  of  that 
hitherto  hazy  and  apocryphal  concept,  the  Law  of  the 
State.  Each  fresh  news  of  it  went  thrilling  across  the 
land  by  that  underground  telegraphy  that  reaches 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  press. 

Never  had  the  county  forces  triumphed  so.  Never 
would  wise  men  risk  their  fortunes  with  the  losing 
side.  But  here  was  a  man  who  had  made  awesomely 
good,  and  who  looked  as  if  he  would  do  it  again. 
Better  make  friends  with  him  quickly  —  with  him  and 
the  great  new  engine  behind  him,  while  yet  there  was 
time. 

So  they  told  Sergeant  Marsh  considerable  sections 
of  truth  —  every  bit  that  they  dared. 

They  had  all  joined  The  Society,  the  Black  Hand; 
that  they  admitted  without  hesitation.  They  had 
done  this  because,  had  they  refused,  they  would  have 
been  killed.  Not  even  flight  would  have  saved  them, 
since,  for  the  sake  of  discipline,  The  Society  would 
have  marked  them  for  extermination  and  the  mark 
would  have  insured  their  murder,  somewhere,  any- 
where, before  long. 

What  benefits  had  they  derived  from  their  member- 
ship and  the  heavy  fees  they  paid  in?  The  vital  bene- 
fit of  being  allowed  to  live. 

Had  they  attended  meetings  of  The  Society?  Yes, 
when  levies  were  assessed  upon  them. 

Where  had  the  meetings  occurred  and  whom  had 
they  seen  there?  The  meetings  had  occurred  at  Porto- 
lessi's  house,  and  they  had  seen  there,  besides  the 


D  TROOP  TIDIES  UP  49 

King  himself,  many  of  the  principal  Italian  business 
men  of  the  city  of  South  Sharon. 

These  latter,  being  arrested,  admitted  their  Black 
Hand  membership,  and  advanced  the  same  reason  or 
excuse  as  that  advanced  by  the  smaller  fry.  They 
had  been  threatened  and  terrorized  by  Mike  Porto- 
lessi. 

Had  they  shared  in  the  booty?  Well  —  they  would 
rather  say  that  they  had  helped  the  King  to  terrorize 
and  to  levy  upon  the  rest  because  their  lives  were 
forfeit  to  him  should  they  dare  to  refuse.  Men  who 
refused  died  always,  violently  and  soon. 

Whose  hand  had  done  the  killing?  Ah!  That  they 
could  not  say. 

Meanwhile  the  trap  was  set  for  the  King.  It  was 
a  complicated  trap,  with  many  ramifications,  the 
better  to  snare  him,  wherever  he  might  be.  At  last 
it  snapped  its  jaws,  with  Mike  Portolessi  fast  be- 
tween them.  The  Chief  of  Police  of  Niagara  Falls 
performed  the  actual  arrest,  and  the  fact  that  the 
King  had  sought  congenial  asylum  in  this  New  York 
town  served  to  show  once  again  the  spread  and  the 
interlocking  cooperation  of  the  Mafia  system  back 
and  forth  across  the  States. 

At  the  trial  Portolessi,  like  his  lieutenants,  freely 
admitted  his  membership  and  activities  in  the  Black 
Hand  organization.  The  origin  of  the  graves  in  the 
cellar  and  the  ghastly  rites  performed  about  them 
were  all  testified  to  upon  oath.  Even  the  books,  pa- 
pers, and  accounts  of  the  "local,"  as  kept  in  regular 
business  form,  were  produced  in  evidence.  But  the 
one  point  as  to  whose  hand  actually  committed  the 


50          THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

murders  done  in  ceremony  —  that  one  point  evaded 
discovery  to  the  end.  In  all  likelihood  it  was  the  hand 
of  the  King  himself.  In  all  likelihood  he  caused  the 
company  to  cover  their  eyes  when  the  blow  was  struck, 
so  that  all  they  actually  saw,  after  an  interval  of 
eclipsed  vision,  was  the  dead  man  at  their  feet.  It 
seemed  really  doubtful  if  any  but  the  King  himself 
could  testify  of  exact  personal  knowledge  as  to  the 
executioner. 

So  Mike  Portolessi,  with  his  soft  and  supple  gam- 
bler's hands,  his  pleasant  manners  and  the  red  flower 
in  his  buttonhole,  went  off  to  prison  for  ten  years  — 
not  a  long  service  for  the  crimes  he  had  done,  not  a 
long  respite  for  the  people  his  prey,  but  as  long  a  term 
as  the  law  would  permit.  Of  the  nine  men  arrested 
with  him,  each  was  duly  convicted  of  confederacy 
in  his  felonies,  on  the  evidence  gathered  by  the  State 
Police.  The  work  in  this  case  was  accomplished  in 
about  a  month's  time. 

As  is  uniformly  the  fact  during  such  protracted 
tours  of  special  duty,  the  Troopers  found  many  and 
varied  opportunities  for  usefulness  to  a  widespread 
people  cropping  up  casually  on  then*  daily  path.  They 
seized  these  opportunities  in  a  way  to  ally  to  the 
Force  every  good  citizen. 

But  some  citizens  of  that  countryside  were  very 
far  from  good.  Seeing  the  able  procedure  that  was 
bringing  the  Portolessi  affair  so  rapidly  forward,  the 
delighted  District  Attorney  one  day  told  Sergeant 
Marsh  of  an  evil  house  that  had  long  been  a  bane  in 
his  district,  but  which  he  had  hitherto  found  himself 
powerless  to  touch. 


D  TROOP  TIDIES  UP  51 

"Will  you  undertake  it?"  asked  the  District  At- 
torney. 

"If  you  request  it,  I  will,"  the  Sergeant  replied. 

He  raided  the  place  and  released  all  the  inmates, 
poor  wrecks  of  humanity  now  in  every  need  of  care. 
The  proprietor  he  discovered  to  be  a  Russian  Jew, 
owner  of  several  other  such  infernos,  one  of  which  was 
in  Youngstown,  Ohio.  In  Youngstown  the  Sergeant 
found  the  man  himself,  presiding  over  a  gambling- 
house  also  his  property.  Safe  in  the  knowledge  that 
under  the  Ohio  law  his  crime  was  not  an  extraditable 
offense,  this  miserable  creature  rather  welcomed  an 
opportunity  to  glorify  his  own  deeds.  The  girls  in  his 
Pennsylvanian  house,  he  explained,  he  had  imported 
from  Hungary,  through  a  Hungarian  tool  of  his,  whose 
method  was  to  write  back  to  his  native  town  offering 
to  families  of  his  acquaintance  work  for  their  girls 
in  America.  Speaking  no  English,  trusting  their  coun- 
tryman, the  girls  would  come.  At  New  York  the  tool 
would  meet  them,  and  bring  them  to  their  fate.  Cer- 
tain officials  —  and,  with  many  chuckles,  the  Jew 
named  the  officials  —  had  been  glad  to  protect  him  in 
this  industry,  "for  a  consiteration,  my  frient,  for  a 
leetle  consiteration,  ha,  ha!" 

He  would  not  cross  the  border  to  testify,  wily  rat 
that  he  was,  and  the  accused  officials  went  free.  But 
they  had  had  a  fright,  at  least;  their  trade  was  broken 
up;  and,  best  of  all,  perhaps,  the  District  Attorney 
had  found  that  he  himself  was  no  longer  helpless  to  do 
his  duty  —  because  the  State  would  do  her  duty  by 
him  with  a  strong  hand. 

On  the  day  on  which  this  incident  was  closed, 


52         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Sergeant  Marsh  rode  over  to  Mercer,  the  county 
town,  to  report. 

*  *  There 's  another  such  place  in  my  bailiwick — same 
kind  of  a  den,  and  a  real  curse  to  the  land,"  the  Dis- 
trict Attorney  was  saying,  as  the  two  finished  their 
talk.  "You  know,  the  people  of  this  county  are  in 
general  an  estimable  class  —  quiet,  industrious,  re- 
ligious, good,  honest  farmer  stock.  To  have  one  of 
these  pest-holes  planted  right  down  among  them  is 
an  awful  thing  for  them.  And  here,  in  this  village  I  'm 
telling  you  about,  the  beast  is  ! 

"Why,  I'd  hate  to  have  to  count  the  number  of 
complaints  I've  received  about  it,  mostly  from  the 
neighbors,  near  or  far.  Men  making  for  that  place, 
and  often  under  the  influence  of  liquor,  mistake  every 
house  within  a  couple  of  miles'  radius  for  the  hole 
they're  looking  for,  and  try  to  get  in.  There's  one 
fine  old  lady  who  lives  in  that  vicinity,  with  a  family 
of  daughters,  running  her  deceased  husband's  farm. 
She  has  come  all  the  way  in  here  to  my  office,  again 
and  again,  to  tell  me  about  her  frights,  and  about 
the  insults  and  dangers  that  have  been  thrust  upon 
her  daughters  by  men,  drunk  or  sober,  mistaking  her 
house.  I  've  been  particularly  sorry  for  her  —  but  I 
ask  you,  what  could  I  do? 

"It  has  been  simply  impossible  for  me  to  get  that 
place  raided.  I  can't  get  it  done.  But  the  way  you 
State  Police  are  coming  on  gives  me  a  new  view  of 
my  own  situation.  You  can't  be  intimidated  by  local 
conditions,  you  can't  be  bought  or  scared,  and  you 
don't  mean  extra  expense.  So  much  is  plain.  Now, 
would  you  raid  that  rats'  nest  for  me  and  lift  the 
scandal  off  my  head?" 


D  TROOP  TIDIES  UP  53 

"Bless  you,  yes!"  said  the  big  Sergeant.  "Why, 
I'll  go  round  and  do  it  on  my  way  home  to-night." 

Reaching  for  the  telephone,  he  called  up  his  own 
headquarters  and  gave  the  Trooper  on  duty  orders 
to  send  two  others  in  civilian  dress  to  the  den  in  ques- 
tion. Upon  their  arrival  there,  he  concluded,  they 
would  report,  by  telephone,  to  him,  the  Sergeant,  at 
the  village  hotel. 

Then  he  wished  the  District  Attorney  good-night, 
and,  accompanied  by  the  one  Trooper  with  whom  he 
had  entered  Mercer  an  hour  or  two  before,  started 
off  to  ride  to  the  scene  of  his  interlude. 

"Good  luck  to  you!"  the  District  Attorney  called 
after  him.  "If  you  succeed  I  shall  be  a  happy  man 
to-night!" 

Sergeant  Marsh  and  his  companion,  both  in  uni- 
form, rode  up  to  the  village  hotel  in  the  early  evening, 
dismounted,  and  went  in  to  supper  like  any  one  else. 
Shortly  after  the  meal,  as  they  sat  on  the  veranda 
smoking,  a  telephone  call  came  for  Sergeant  Marsh. 

"Everything's  in  hand  here,  Sergeant,  and  all  the 
inmates  secured."  It  was  the  senior  Trooper  of  the 
pair  ordered  out,  reporting  according  to  orders. 

"Very  well,  I'll  be  there  directly,"  the  Sergeant 
rejoined. 

A  few  moments  later  he  was  running  up  the  steps 
of  the  dwelling  of  the  Chief  of  Police. 

"I  am  Sergeant  Marsh,  of  the  Pennsylvania  State 
Police  Force,"  he  explained,  looking  very  soldierly 
and  formidable  under  the  light  of  the  Chief's  parlor 
lamp.  "I  would  like  to  borrow  your  patrol- wagon, 
Chief." 


54         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"You  can  have  it,  certainly.  Glad  to  oblige  you," 
rejoined  the  other,  all  liberal  affability.  "And  might 
I  ask  what  you  want  it  for?  " 

"I'm  raiding  a  disorderly  house." 

In  a  flash  the  Chief's  manner  changed.  Greatly  ex- 
cited and  flurried,  he  stammered:  — 

"I  —  I  think  I '11  have  to  consult  the  Burgess  about 
that  wagon  ...  I  ...  Just  wait  a  moment,  can  you, 
please?" 

He  rushed  to  the  telephone  in  another  room.  The 
number  that  he  gave  was  the  number  of  the  disor- 
derly house.  The  senior  Trooper  answered  the  call 
in  a  guarded,  de-individualized  voice. 

"Say!  This  is  the  Chief  of  Police  talking,"  ran  the 
words  that  came  back  t6  him;  "you  will  have  to  get 
out  of  there  —  get  everybody  out  of  there  —  right 
away.  Quick!"  i 

"All  right!  All  right!  We'll  attend  to  it.  Good- 
bye!" 

Back  came  the  Chief,  perspiring  and  nervous,  but 
satisfied. 

"It's  all  right.  Sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting. 
The  Burgess  says  you're  welcome  to  the  patrol 
wagon." 

"I  am  much  obliged,"  said  the  big  Sergeant  de- 
liberately. 

"You'd  better  hurry  up!"  urged  the  Chief,  anxious 
to  seem  businesslike,  now  that  the  game  was  saved. 

"Oh,  no,"  dissented  the  officer  coolly.  "There's  no 
need  of  any  hurry.  The  place  was  raided  before  I 
spoke  to  you.  My  men  are  in  possession  now.  No- 
body is  going  to  get  away." 


D  TROOP  TIDIES  UP  55 

Nobody  did  get  away. 

Like  the  people  in  Hillsville  and  in  poor  little  Hell- 
town,  like  the  people  in  Sharon  and  in  all  the  county 
of  Lawrence  and  of  Mercer,  the  decent  people  of  this 
sorely  tried  village  were  made  glad  at  heart. 

And  so,  when  the  Helltown  blackguards  were 
convicted,  sentenced  and  away,  when  Portolessi  and 
his  lieutenants  had  received  their  reward,  while  a 
motley  multitude  of  other  plagues  had  been  rooted 
out  in  passing,  First  Sergeant  Marsh  and  his  detail 
rode  on  to  other  fields. 

"Will  you  come  back  and  help  us  the  next  time 
we're  up  against  it?"  some  one  shouted,  out  of  the 
crowd  that  saw  them  off. 

Said  the  Sergeant,  from  the  saddle,  "That's  what 
we 're  for!" 


m 

BABE 

T)  ABE  is  Corporal  Metcalf's  horse.  But  when, 
U  knowing  the  circumstances,  you  phrase  it  that 
way,  the  words  strike  your  ear  as  misleading.  Babe  is 
a  horse  only  in  the  sense  that  your  own  precious  first- 
born, lying  in  your  arms,  is  a  primate  mammal  — 
you  cannot  deny  the  fact,  nevertheless  its  assertion 
is  ridiculous. 

Babe,  if  you  ask  Corporal  Metcalf,  is  the  finest 
horse  in  the  Squadron.  And  Corporal  Metcalf,  as 
Troop  farrier  for  twelve  years,  as  Regular  Army  far- 
rier before  that  time,  and  as  graduate  of  the  Mounted 
Service  School  at  Fort  Riley,  ought  to  know.  But 
there  are  two  hundred  and  thirty-one  other  horses  in 
the  Squadron,  not  one  of  whom,  if  his  master  were 
by,  you  could  comfortably  assign  to  second  place.  So 
it  is  better  not  to  begin  on  comparisons. 

Babe,  then,  in  Corporal  Metcalf's  eyes,  is  the  dear- 
est thing  in  the  world.  And  in  that,  if  you  knew  all 
the  Corporal  knows,  you  would  gladly  understand 
him. 

The  points  are  all  there,  of  course.  So  much  goes 
without  saying.  And,  equally  of  course,  anything  and 
everything  that  human  skill  and  care  can  do  for  the 
comfort,  health,  and  beauty  of  a  horse,  Corporal  Met- 
calf does  for  Babe,  with  tireless  devotion.  But,  beyond 
all  that,  he  has  loved  Babe's  very  soul  up  out  of  that 


BABE  57 

pit  where  all  souls  lie  asleep  till  some  love  so  awakens 
them;  which  in  itself  makes  a  deathless  bond  that 
binds  the  roots  of  loyalty. 

Babe  and  the  Corporal  do  not  take  the  open  road 
together  quite  as  much  as  they  would  like,  for  the 
reason  that  the  Corporal  is  largely  busy  in  his  shop  — • 
to  what  purpose  is  best  proved  by  the  beautiful  con- 
dition of  all  of  "B"  Troop's  horses.  But  now  and 
again  comes  a  stretch  of  work  that  gives  these  two 
their  fling  in  the  world,  hand  in  hand  with  happiness. 

Such  a  stretch  was  on  in  the  spring  of  1916,  when 
conditions  of  disorder  distracted  Luzerne  and  Lacka- 
wanna  Counties,  when  the  entire  Troop  was  busy, 
the  round  of  the  clock,  in  maintaining  peace  and  pre- 
venting bloodshed.  The  Corporal,  to  be  sure,  had  all 
his  ordinary  work  to  carry,  and  more  also;  but,  with 
every  Trooper  working  twenty  hours  a  day,  and  liable 
to  call  for  emergency  duty  in  the  remaining  four,  he 
could  count  on  his  turn  in  the  field  with  reasonable 
certainty. 

So  came  the  26th  of  March  —  a  balmy  Sunday 
afternoon,  when  the  air  was  gay  with  the  scent  of 
spring,  when  a  big  blue  sky  full  of  sunshine  and  float- 
ing fleece  smiled  down  on  the  broad  blue  river,  while 
the  river,  twinkling  back  again,  sang  a  new  song  to  the 
sky  and  the  world. 

All  the  people  in  Wilkes-Barre,  all  the  people  in  the 
districts  outlying,  had  been  charmed  into  the  open  by 
the  heavenly  magic  of  the  day.  In  the  town  hummed 
a  ceaseless  rumbling  roar,  low  and  heavy  —  the  sound 
of  motor- wheels  on  the  bridges,  as  the  crowds  streamed 
out  and  in.  Beyond,  each  road  teemed  with  traffic. 


58         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Every  person  who  owned  a  car,  or  who  could  borrow 
or  hire  a  thing  that  resembled  one,  had  produced  the 
vehicle,  filled  it  at  least  to  capacity  with  his  family 
to  the  third  and  fourth  generation,  with  his  friends, 
with  his  slightest  acquaintances,  and  had  voyaged 
abroad  to  view  the  earth.  There  seemed  no  end  to 
them,  nor  any  beginning  either.  From  numbers  alone 
they  presented  a  traffic  problem.  And  at  this  par- 
ticular time  —  a  time  of  disorder,  of  ferment,  of  ab- 
normal idleness  among  the  masses,  that  problem  was 
complicated  by  an  always  attendant  phenomenon  — 
the  excessive  percentage  of  more  or  less  drunken 
drivers  bringing  to  naught  the  best  cares  of  the  sober 
rest. 

Within  city  limits  the  city  police  were  struggling 
with  the  situation.  Beyond  that  circle  the  State  Police 
handled  the  work.  And,  to  their  common  delight, 
Corporal  Metcalf  and  Babe,  on  this  perfect  afternoon, 
had  been  assigned  to  service. 

They  were  detailed  to  traffic  duty  and  general  patrol 
in  Midvale,  adjoining  Wilkes-Barre,  where  the  main 
highway,  emerging  from  the  city,  skirts  the  edge  of  a 
steep  embankment.  At  the  bottom  of  the  embankment 
run  the  tracks  of  the  Lehigh  Valley  Railroad.  And  it 
is  well,  in  using  the  highway  into  Midvale,  to  remem- 
ber that  pitching  down  lofty  embankments  hurts. 

Corporal  Metcalf  and  Babe  had  been  busy  for  half 
the  afternoon  persuading  the  general  public  to  safety 
and  order.  And  the  general  public  still  flowed  on,  like 
the  waves  in  the  sea,  ever  self -replacing,  ever  stranger 
to  law.  It  was  steady,  sharp,  lively  work,  this  curbing 
the  holiday  world,  and  Babe  and  his  Corporal  had 


BABE  59 

needed  all  their  eyes,  all  their  skill  and  alertness  to 
manage  it;  which  was  why  it  was  fun. 

Now  they  were  pacing  at  the  cityward  end  of  their 
beat,  looking  in  upon  the  concentrated  mass. 

"  We  can  show  'em,  Babe,  can't  we?"  whispered  the 
Corporal,  stroking  the  silky  neck,  color  and  gloss  of  a 
chestnut  just  out  of  its  burr.  Babe  put  one  small  ear 
back  to  listen,  then  arched  his  neck  a  little  higher,  to 
show  that  he  understood.  And  just  at  that  moment 
something  happened. 

About  six  hundred  yards  ahead,  and  within  the 
city  limits,  lay  the  entrance  to  a  cemetery.  A  funeral 
had  been  in  progress  within,  and  now  the  carriages 
were  emerging  on  their  homeward  road.  One  by  one, 
decent  and  dingy,  they  jogged  out,  turned  this  way 
or  that  as  they  passed  through  the  gate,  and  joined 
the  general  flood;  until  suddenly,  heralded  by  a  broken 
chorus  of  screams  and  shouts,  surrounded  by  futile 
commotion,  appeared  the  last  of  the  cortege,  a  great, 
old-fashioned  hack,  moving  not  at  a  decorous  funeral 
pace,  but  at  full  gallop. 

As  it  cleared  the  cemetery  gate,  the  team  whirled, 
turned  to  the  left,  away  from  the  city,  and  broke  into 
a  dead  run.  At  that  the  driver,  who  had  been  standing 
in  his  box,  flung  down  his  reins  and  jumped. 

The  runaway  team  came  thundering  on.  As  it  ap- 
proached the  city  line  the  natural  trend  of  the  traffic 
forced  it  to  the  extreme  right,  to  the  sheer  and  peril- 
ous edge  of  the  embankment.  And  on  the  very  line 
itself,  where  their  field  began,  the  Corporal  and  Babe 
hung  ready. 

They  had  headed,  of  course,  in  the  direction  in 


60         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

which  the  team  was  travelling;  they  held  to  the  far 
right  —  to  the  outer  edge  of  the  road;  and,  as  the 
runaway  neared,  Corporal  Metcalf  snatched  one 
glance  at  the  windows  of  the  coach.  Faces,  faces,  all 
the  faces  there  was  room  for  —  a  man,  an  old  woman, 
four  younger  women,  a  little  girl  —  all  blanched  and 
distorted  with  terror  —  and  the  man  madly  and 
vainly  struggling  to  open  the  door. 

Corporal  Metcalf  seized  the  off  horse's  bridle. 

Now,  Babe  knew  as  well  as  his  master,  every  whit, 
the  work  cut  out  for  the  two  of  them  that  day.  While 
the  Corporal  kept  his  steady  restraining  pull  on  the 
runaway's  mouth,  shoving  the  while  away  and  away 
from  the  abyss,  Babe,  stretched  out  to  a  run,  still 
shoved  away  and  away,  bearing  his  shining  shoulder 
against  the  rusty  black  withers  of  the  maddened 
beast. 

But  the  team  had  acquired  a  terrible  headway. 
And  it  was  crazed.  Meantime  the  slightest  veer 
would  send  it  crashing  over  the  brink,  dragging  the 
coach  and  its  helpless  prisoners  after. 

The  prisoners  screamed,  shrieked,  implored.  The 
people  in  the  crowded  road  screamed,  shrieked,  and 
shouted.  The  poor,  frightened  runaways,  surrounded 
by  Bedlam,  could  have  no  thought  but  flight.  The 
sheer  embankment  waited  —  with  its  railway  down 
below.  And  between  all  this  and  death  flew  Babe  and 
Corporal  Metcalf  —  those  two. 

Babe  was  travelling  on  twelve  inches  of  free  ground, 
now,  no  more.  And  of  that  the  outer  quarter  crum- 
bled. As  they  passed  each  successive  telegraph  pole, 
the  Corporal  had  to  snatch  his  foot  out  of  the  stirrup 


BABE  61 

lest  his  right  leg  be  smashed  in  the  sweeping  impact. 
Always  the  drive  of  the  team  was  toward  the  brink; 
always  the  Corporal's  grip,  dragging  at  the  bridle,  at 
the  same  time  shoved  inward;  and  always  Babe, 
stretched  to  the  run,  sure-footed  as  an  antelope,  his 
delicate  nostrils  blown  wide  with  excitement,  drove 
his  silky  shoulder  in  and  in  against  the  shoulder  of 
the  fear-crazed  runaway. 

At  last  grip  and  pressure  began  to  tell.  The  off 
horse  began  to  understand.  "They're  coming,  Babe! 
Keep  it  up!"  whispered  the  Corporal  —  and  again 
the  little  ears  turned  to  catch  the  words. 

But  then  swooped  calamity  out  of  the  blue.  As 
the  off  horse  yielded,  the  other,  pulling  forward  still 
unchecked,  snapped  a  trace.  With  that  it  forged 
ahead,  and,  in  its  effort  to  escape  the  oncoming  traf- 
fic, must  in  another  moment  have  dragged  its  mate, 
coach  and  all,  over  the  bank. 

For  the  fraction  of  an  instant,  while  his  hand  flew 
to  his  holster,  the  Corporal  considered  shooting  that 
nigh  horse.  But  with  the  very  thought  came  its 
answer :  — 

"That  would  pile  the  whole  thing  up  in  a  wreck." 

Meantime  the  people  in  the  coach,  seeing  all,  yet 
helpless,  raved  in  their  terror. 

"Save  us!  Save  us!"  they  screamed.  "Help  us! 
Save  us!"  —  and  clutched  with  their  hands  at  the 
empty  air. 

The  whole  highway  screamed,  jammed,  swore, 
shouted,  would  have  stampeded,  but  that,  literally, 
there  was  no  place  to  go. 

But  Babe  and  Corporal  Metcalf  heard  none  of  this 


62          THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

emptiness.  Their  mind  was  on  the  job.  A  touch  had 
given  Babe  his  cue.  As  the  Corporal  released  the  off 
horse's  head,  Babe  slowed  up  just  a  trifle,  let  the 
hack  reel  by,  and  then  with  a  spurt  shot  forward  on 
the  inside,  till  the  Corporal  could  seize  the  nigh  run- 
away's bridle. 

Now  for  a  fight  for  the  lives  of  the  multitude,  a  fight 
against  wholesale  slaughter. 

Down  the  long  road  ahead  wound  a  thick,  black 
stream  of  traffic.  Wagons,  buggies,  surreys,  motors 
of  every  size  and  kind,  all  packed  with  humanity,  — 
with  men,  women,  and  children,  —  following  each 
other,  paralleling  each  other,  with  scarce  a  wagon's 
length  between  at  best.  On  one  side,  the  sheer  em- 
bankment, with  the  railroad  track  below.  On  the 
other,  no  egress.  Charging  into  the  heart  of  it  all 
rushed  the  big  ark  of  a  hack,  with  its  helpless  freight, 
dragged  by  the  crazy  pair.  And  to  save  the  day 
bloodless,  if  perchance  it  could  be  saved,  just  Cor- 
poral Metcalf  and  little  Babe  —  those  two. 

Corporal  Metcalf 's  hand,  instinct  with  knowledge 
and  reassurance,  steady  in  grip  and  pull,  kept  the  nigh 
runaway's  bridle.  Babe,  holding  the  pace,  was  doing 
his  part  with  a  will.  But  the  crowd  ahead  behaved, 
crowd-like,  insanely.  Instead  of  clearing  a  lane  for 
the  bolt  to  shoot  through,  each  driver  thought  for 
himself  alone  —  and  thought  wrong.  Darting  hither 
and  yon  as  they  guessed  the  team  would  veer,  they 
left  no  fair  space  anywhere,  so  that  Corporal  Met- 
calf, lying  along  Babe's  neck,  must  throw  all  his 
strength,  as  Babe  threw  all  his  weight,  to  guide  their 
death-fraught  projectile  in  and  out  the  rapidly  twist- 


BABE  63 

ing  course  thrust  upon  them.  Uncountable  times,  by 
the  barest  hand's  breadth,  they  saved  some  ghastly 
impact.  Uncountable  times,  by  supreme  exertion, 
they  steered  their  big  convoy  just  clear  of  the  teeth 
of  death.  Uncountable  times  they  themselves  escaped 
as  by  a  miracle  from  being  torn  to  pieces  or  ground 
to  pulp. 

And  always  before  them  spread  the  river  of  faces 
—  white,  wide-eyed  faces,  panic-possessed,  scream- 
ing, screaming. 

Now  on  the  left,  amidst  a  mass  of  smaller  vehi- 
cles, approached  a  great,  slow-moving  motor  dray, 
while,  nearly  abreast  of  it,  filling  the  other  side  of  the 
road,  a  bus  full  of  holiday-makers  lumbered  along  in 
the  opposite  direction.  Corporal  Metcalf,  seeing  the 
two,  knew  that  he  must  find  a  way  between.  He  set 
his  teeth,  threw  his  ultimate  reserve  of  steady  power 
into  his  grip,  and,  by  the  narrowest  nicety,  just  suc- 
ceeded in  guiding  his  team  along  the  tortuous  lane  of 
safety. 

Then,  with  the  next  plunge  their  forefeet  struck 
out  a  new  sound,  ringing  hollow  on  the  floor  of  a  high 
viaduct.  But  their  late  manoeuvre  had  thrown  them 
to  the  wrong  side  of  the  road  —  to  the  extreme  left, 
toward  the  viaduct  parapet.  And  now,  directly  before 
them,  not  twenty  feet  ahead,  hugging  the  parapet, 
came  a  great,  open  touring-car  full  of  women.  Two 
had  fainted,  two  stood  up,  preparing  in  their  fright  to 
jump  over  the  wall  into  the  depths  beneath.  The  rest 
clutched  the  sides  of  their  car,  shrieking. 

"Sit  down!  Sit  still!"  shouted  Corporal  Metcalf. 
1    And  then  —  Heaven  knows  how  they  did  it!  — he 


64         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

and  Babe  together  turned  that  engine  of  ruin  away 
from  those  women,  although  the  curve  bent  so  grimly 
sharp  that  the  lamps  of  the  car  were  swept  off  as  they 
sped,  and  although  again  the  Corporal,  to  save  him- 
self alive,  was  obliged  to  ride  in  one  stirrup. 

But  the  last  ounce  of  strain  unhorsed  him,  victo- 
rious though  he  was  —  dragged  him  to  earth.  And 
still  the  runaways  thundered  on,  with  the  Trooper 
hanging  at  their  bridles. 

Babe  was  out  of  it  now  —  lost  —  gone.  The  man 
swinging  at  the  heads  of  the  frantic  pair  was  alone 
in  his  desperate  struggle.  The  faces  in  the  coach  win- 
dow were  terrible  to  see.  On  and  on  swept  the  team. 
The  Corporal's  feet  scarcely  touched  the  earth.  Yet 
he  knew  they  were  feeling  him  —  knew  he  was  gaining 
on  them.  They  slackened  —  slackened  —  slackened 
—  at  last  they  stopped. 

Then  a  score  of  men  rushed  for  their  heads.  Then 
some  one  tore  open  the  door  of  the  coach,  whose  lock 
had  stuck  fast.  Then  Richard  Powell,  of  the  Mine 
Workers'  Union,  his  wife,  his  daughters,  and  their 
grandmother,  seven  persons  in  all,  came  tottering 
down  from  the  coach  to  give  thanks  for  their  miracu- 
lous deliverance  —  to  grasp  the  Corporal's  hand. 

The  Corporal,  too,  rejoiced,  and  from  the  bottom 
of  his  heart,  that  these  people  stood  alive  and  whole. 
But  from  their  thanks  he  turned  aside,  a  little  em- 
barrassed. Seven  lives,  on  seven  other  occasions,  he 
had  saved  through  risk  as  great  from  death  as  immi- 
nent. But  that  had  been  merely  his  duty  as  he  saw  it. 

And  the  rescued  had  seen  it,  also,  as  merely  his 
duty,  no  more.  Corporal  Metcalf  was  not  used  to 


THRUST  HIS  SOFT  NOSE  OVER  CORPORAL  METCALF'S 
SHOULDER 


BABE  65 

being  thanked.  Besides,  that  remained  which  touched 
him  far  closer. 

"Babe!"  he  called  softly.  "Where  are  you?" 
Then  Babe,  who,  after  their  parting,  had  travelled 
each  step  of  the  way  hard  on  the  flank  of  the  run- 
aways, pushed  through  — pushed  close,  and,  with  the 
breath  of  a  whinny,  thrust  his  soft  nose  over  Corporal 
Metcalf  s  shoulder. 


IV 

BIG  MINE  RUN 

BIG  MINE  RUN  is  nothing  but  a  mining  patch  — 
a  grimy  nubbin  of  ugly  shacks  excrescent  upon 
the  soil  of  Schuylkill  County  some  two  miles  out  of 
Ashland.  The  population  of  the  place,  almost  en- 
tirely Italian,  comprises  about  five  hundred  persons 
—  coal  miners  and  their  families,  storekeepers  of 
sorts,  and  a  sprinkling  of  those  less  obviously  em- 
ployed who  commonly  grace  such  communities. 

Toward  five  o'clock,  on  the  afternoon  of  Sunday, 
January  30,  1916,  as  the  Ashland  trolley  neared 
Woodland  Park,  on  the  skirts  of  Big  Mine  Run,  a 
passenger  on  the  front  platform  noticed  a  hat  lying 
by  the  track. 

"That  hat  looks  new,"  said  he  to  the  motorman. 
"Somebody's  lost  it.  Let's  stop  and  pick  it  up." 

The  motorman  good-naturedly  halted.  Then,  a 
few  yards  farther  on,  they  saw  a  man  prostrate  on 
the  road,  face  downward. 

"Bah!  Nothing  but  a  drunk!"  growled  the  motor- 
man.  "Well,  we  may  as  well  give  him  his  hat,  any- 
way, now  we're  at  it." 

So  the  two  walked  over  to  the  spot,  and  the  enter- 
prising passenger  laid  his  hand  upon  the  sleeper's 
shoulder.  With  an  exclamation,  he  snatched  that  hand 
back.  It  was  wet  with  blood.  The  man  was  stone  dead, 
although  the  warmth  had  not  yet  left  his  body. 


BIG  MINE  RUN  67 

Later,  a  deputy  coroner  in  the  neighboring  town 
of  Girardville  telephoned  "C"  Troop  Barracks  that 
"an  unknown  Italian  had  been  found  dead,  from 
wounds  caused  by  revolver  bullets,  on  the  road  near 
Big  Mine  Run  at  Woodland  Park." 

The  Captain  of  "C"  Troop,  Pennsylvania  State 
Police,  is  a  young  man  of  marked  characteristics. 
Among  these  characteristics  are  a  passionate  devo- 
tion to  the  ideals  of  the  Force  and  to  the  leader  that 
conceived  and  inspires  them,  a  deep  sense  of  justice, 
loyalty,  and  responsibility,  and  a  power  to  elicit  from 
good  men  full  return  for  the  confidence  he  puts  in 
them.  His  command  has  a  single  pride  —  the  honor 
of  the  Force;  and  a  single  ambition  —  to  add  to  it. 
And  down  in  the  bottom  of  its  heart  hides  a  fixed 
idea  —  that  "C"  Troop  is  and  must  remain,  even 
though  only  by  a  bit's-length,  the  best  Troop  in  the 
Squadron. 

So,  when  Captain  Wilhelm  detailed  Sergeant  Har- 
vey J.  Smith  and  Private  Buono  to  proceed  at  once 
to  Girardville  and  take  up  the  case,  he  knew  the  ulti- 
mate results  to  be  expected. 

Arriving  at  Girardville,  the  two  officers  examined 
the  body  —  that  of  an  Italian  perhaps  twenty-eight 
years  old,  well-built,  slender,  with  a  great  shock  of 
black  hair  tumbling  over  his  closed  eyelids.  His 
wounds  —  four  bullet  wounds  —  indicated  that  his 
back  had  been  turned  squarely  upon  his  assailant  or 
assailants  when  the  shots  were  fired.  Three  bullets 
had  penetrated  his  body.  The  fourth  had  shattered 
the  elbow  of  his  right  arm. 

Near  the  victim,  as  he  lay  in  the  road,  had  been 


68         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

found  a  32-calibre  Colt's  automatic  revolver,  loaded. 
This  revolver  had  not  been  fired  recently,  and  its 
safety  was  caught,  indicating  that  when  the  man 
snatched  out  his  gun  to  protect  himself  he  had  not 
been  able  to  release  the  trigger.  In  his  belt  was  a  scab- 
bard holding  a  dagger  with  a  ten-inch  blade.  An 
examination  of  his  pockets  produced  a  watch,  five 
dollars  in  cash,  nine  loaded  revolver-cases  fitting  the 
weapon  found  near  the  body,  and  the  unused  parts 
of  two  railway  tickets  punched  at  the  Pennsylvania 
Railroad  Station  at  Johnstown,  Pennsylvania,  on 
January  28,  1916. 

The  tickets  read  for  passage  on  that  railroad  from 
Johnstown  to  Mount  Carmel,  and  thence  to  Shenan- 
doah,  by  way  of  Centralia  on  the  Lehigh  Valley  Road. 

The  man  was  about  five  feet  and  seven  inches  tall, 
weighed  one  hundred  and  forty-five  pounds,  and  was 
comfortably  dressed.  Thus  far  no  one  had  identified 
him. 

The  two  Troopers  opened  their  search  at  the  settle- 
ment nearest  the  scene  of  the  crime.  Here  inquiry 
among  the  people  drew  out  the  information  that  Rosa 
Borrusco,  storekeeper,  in  whose  house  some  ten 
Italians  lodged,  had  but  just  taken  into  her  family  a 
strange  Italian  with  a  young  wife.  As  the  Troopers 
jumped  off  the  trolley  before  Rosa  Borrusco's  shack, 
a  very  young  woman  with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  who 
stood  hanging  over  the  front  gate,  gave  them  one 
long  terror-stricken  look,  then  started  to  run  as 
though  afraid  of  bodily  harm. 

Overtaking  her,  the  Sergeant  asked  a  few  ques- 
tions, to  which  she  returned  little  or  no  reply.  Then 


BIG  MINE  RUN  69 

he  showed  her  the  half-used  railway  tickets,  found 
in  the  dead  stranger's  pockets. 

"Where  is  my  man?"  demanded  the  girl,  suddenly 
vehement. 

The  Sergeant  described  to  her  the  dead  man,  his 
clothing  and  appearance. 

"That,"  said  she  simply,  "is  Giuseppe  Pangollo, 
my  husband." 

Meantime  Private  Buono,  delving  rapidly,  had 
unearthed  the  fact  that  one  of  the  few  Americans  in 
the  place  could  offer  testimony  perhaps  related  to 
the  shooting. 

This  man  lived  in  the  hollow  of  the  hill,  just  below 
Woodland  Park.  On  Sunday  afternoon,  being,  as  he 
now  remarked,  in  a  state  of  intoxication,  he  had  sat 
for  some  hours  at  his  bedroom  window,  patiently  gaz- 
ing out  upon  the  world  until  such  time  as  the  use  of 
his  legs  should  return  to  him. 

So  situated,  he  took  idle  note  of  three  Italians,  stand- 
ing under  the  shed  of  the  Woodland  Park  trolley  sta- 
tion, and  of  a  fourth  loitering  by  the  tool-box  across 
the  road.  Then  his  attention  wavily  eclipsed,  but  was 
later  revived  by  five  revolver  shots  fired  at  close  hand. 
Now  from  his  window  he  saw  three  Italians  running  up 
through  the  Park,  the  last  of  whom  turned  as  he  ran 
and  fired  another  shot  in  the  direction  of  the  road  he 
had  just  quitted. 

The  observer  could  not  describe  the  Italians,  how- 
ever, did  not  see  the  object  of  the  fire,  nor  had  he  in 
any  way  attempted  to  discover  the  fruit  of  the  fracas. 

"Drunk  as  I  was  at  the  toime,  sor,  't  is  lucky  ye 
ar-re  to  recover  as  much  as  ye  do  from  me!"  he 


70         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

observed  to  the  questioning  officer  with  some  indig- 
nation. And  the  officer  fully  agreed  with  him. 

While  Buono  was  plucking  this  straw,  Sergeant 
Smith  had  taken  into  custody  Rosa  Borrusco  and  all 
the  inmates  of  her  boarding-house.  With  a  single 
exception,  all  denied  knowledge  of  the  dead  man  and 
of  his  wife.  The  exception  was  a  young  man  called 
Domenico  Niccolo. 

Niccolo  spoke  out  with  a  degree  of  freedom.  In 
the  year  1913,  he  said,  he  had  worked  in  a  coal  mine 
in  Lowe,  West  Virginia.  During  that  time  he  had 
boarded  with  the  parents  of  Maria  Mariano,  the  young 
girl  with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  who  said  she  was  the 
wife  of  the  man  that  was  killed.  Giuseppe  Pangollo, 
sometimes  known  as  Joe  Valero,  had  been  Niccolo's 
fellow-boarder  in  the  Mariano  house.  He,  Niccolo, 
had  recently  been  surprised  by  receiving  a  letter  from 
Maria  inquiring  as  to  opportunities  for  work  in  the  Big 
Mine  Run  region,  and  stating  that  she  and  an  un- 
named husband  considered  coming  there  to  live.  On 
Saturday,  the  day  before  the  shooting,  Maria  had  ap- 
peared in  Big  Mine  Run,  in  company  with  Pangollo, 
whom,  she  alleged,  she  had  met  while  on  a  visit  to 
Italy  eighteen  months  ago  and  had  married  there. 

All  the  Italians  of  Rosa  Borrusco's  flock  now  cho- 
rused that  they  did  not  believe  the  story  of  the  visit  to 
Italy,  nor  that  the  two  had  been  married  at  all ;  add- 
ing that  they  had  seen  Pangollo  talking  with  some  ut- 
terly strange  men  on  Sunday  afternoon;  that  after- 
ward, leaving  Maria  here  in  the  house,  he  went  away 
with  the  strangers;  and  that  they  never  saw  him  again 
alive. 


BIG  MINE  RUN  71 

Investigation  of  Maria's  room  showed  no  luggage 
except  a  single  suit-case. 

"Where  is  your  trunk?"  asked  the  Sergeant. 

"I  think,"  said  Maria,  "at  the  railroad  station." 

No  railway  station  at  any  neighboring  point,  as 
was  now  proved,  held  any  freight  addressed  to  Pan- 
gollo.  But  the  express  office  at  Ashland  held  a  trunk, 
a  bed,  and  a  mattress,  shipped  from  Tony  Delmeri, 
Johnstown,  Pennsylvania,  to  Domenico  Niccolo  in  Big 
Mine  Run. 

These  goods  Maria  identified  as  her  own;  neverthe- 
less, she  steadily  refused  to  release  and  receive  them. 
Then  she  despatched  a  telegram  to  an  Italian  in 
Johnstown  asking  him  to  send  money  for  the  burial 
of  her  husband. 

"Maybe  he  send  a  little,"  she  said  to  the  others. 
"I  have  no  money,  I  have  nowhere  to  go.  My  man 
is  dead.  My  father  has  closed  his  door.  I  have  no- 
where to  go  with  my  baby." 

"You  could  stay  here,"  said  they,  "for  a  while. 
The  padrona  asks  no  money  the  first  days." 

So  she  lingered. 

The  discovery  that  the  luggage  of  the  Pangollos 
was  addressed  to  Niccolo  evidently  burst  upon  the 
latter  as  a  complete  and  unpleasant  surprise.  Niccolo 
saw  himself  compromised  in  a  situation  that  might 
easily  be  serious.  He  hastened  to  disclaim  all  sym- 
pathy with  the  affair. 

Pangollo,  he  affirmed,  must  be  a  crook.  Evidently 
he  was  fleeing  from  some  one's  vengeance.  Else  why 
did  he  elaborately  buy  railway  tickets  from  Johns- 
town all  the  way  to  Shenandoah,  a  point  beyond  his 


72          THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

actual  destination,  and  then  sneak  off  the  train  far 
on  the  hither  side,  to  complete  the  trip  by  trolley 
stages,  as  he  had  done?  Maria  knew  the  exact  route 
to  Big  Mine  Run.  He,  Niccolo,  had  carefully  written 
it  out  for  her.  Then  why  had  they  conceived  the  de- 
vious course,  unless  it  were  to  throw  some  pursuer 
off  the  track? 

But  Maria,  as  to  all  this,  knew  nothing  —  nothing. 
Only,  she  repeated,  she  could  never  go  home  to  her 
parents  again.  Forbidden.  Impossible.  And  Maria 
was  singularly  calm.  Also,  she  was  beautiful. 

That  night  the  State  Police  officers  were  permitted 
to  examine  the  trunk  in  the  express  office.  It  con- 
tained clothing,  a  few  dishes,  a  30-30-calibre  repeat- 
ing rifle  of  foreign  make,  and  a  number  of  photographs 
of  the  murdered  man. 

"What  you'd  call  a  desperately  handsome  fellow," 
observed  the  Sergeant,  studying  the  face  by  the  light 
of  the  telegrapher's  drop-lamp — "and  liked  being 
photographed,  of  course." 

Each  card  showed  a  young  Sicilian,  of  fine  physique, 
with  a  great  shock  of  black  hair  and  big  dark  eyes. 
But  on  one  particular  card  this  striking  figure  made 
the  centre  of  a  group  of  thirteen  men,  ranged  along 
the  veranda  of  a  house.  On  the  house  door,  behind 
the  group,  showed  the  figures  "60."  On  the  back  of 
the  card  stood  the  name  of  the  photographer,  and 
his  address  —  "Lowe,  West  Virginia." 

"I  believe,"  wrote  Sergeant  Smith  that  night,  re- 
porting to  Captain  Wilhelm,  "that  this  case  should 
be  operated  from  Johnstown;  and  that  an  investiga- 
tion there  and  in  Lowe  would  develop  the  plot  out  of 


BIG  MINE  RUN  73 

which  the  trouble  started.  The  post-mortem  shows 
the  bullets  in  the  murdered  man's  body  to  be  lead, 
32-calibre." 

Now,  Johnstown  lies  in  the  west  of  the  State,  in 
"A"  Troop's  territory.  Captain  Adams,  command- 
ing "A"  Troop,  was  therefore  informed  at  once  of  the 
status  of  the  case.  Promptly  cooperating,  he  detailed 
Private  Sturm  to  the  work,  and  presently  forwarded 
to  his  brother-captain  Private  Sturm's  first  report. 

Giuseppe  Pangollo,  as  thereby  appeared,  came  to 
Johnstown  from  Cincinnati  in  October,  1915.  Dur- 
ing his  stay  in  Johnstown  he  had  appeared  to  be  in 
hiding.  It  was  believed  among  the  Italians  there  that 
he  had  come  from  West  Virginia,  and  that  he  had  run 
away  with  another  man's  wife. 

Captain  Wilhelm  now  sent  a  copy  of  the  mur- 
dered man's  photograph  to  the  Chief  of  Police  of  Cin- 
cinnati, and  in  due  course  received  from  that  official 
information  that  the  photograph  strongly  resembled 
one  Joe  or  Giuseppe  Pangollo,  wanted  in  Cincinnati 
for  the  murder  of  an  Italian,  named  Stillitano,  in 
September,  1913. 

In  the  interval  Sergeant  Smith  had  been  contem- 
plating the  beauties  of  Big  Mine  Run,  chief  among 
which,  to  his  curious  way  of  thinking,  was  the  Bast 
Colliery's  "rock  dump." 

This  phenomenon  was  an  immense  heap  of  coal  ref- 
use, over  fifty  feet  high.  You  could  see  it  from  every- 
where in  the  patch  —  and  by  the  same  token  the  two 
men  always  working  on  the  dirty  top  of  it  could 
assuredly  see  you. 

These  two,  by  chance,  were  Americans.  And  when 


74         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

the  Sergeant,  proceeding  to  visit  them  in  his  quiet, 
friendly,  methodical  way,  asked:  — 

"Will  you  keep  a  sharp  eye  out  for  anything  new, 
and,  if  you  see  cause,  get  word  to  me?" 

"You  bet,"  said  the  two,  with  alacrity. 

Not  for  many  days,  however,  did  this  seed  bear  fruit. 
Then,  on  the  24th  of  February,  came  word  that  the 
rock-dump  hands  had  something  to  tell.  It  was  this: 

"See  that  small  slush-stream  down  yon  at  the  foot 
of  the  dump?  That  runnin'  black  with  the  dirt  o'  the 
coal,  with  the  bit  of  a  bridge  crossin'  over  it?  Well, 
about  eleven  o'clock  this  mornin',  I  seen  a  strange 
Italian  come  over  that  bridge,  and  turn  himself  round 
and  climb  down  under  it.  And  there  he  stood  spying 
this  way  and  yon,  very  cautious. 

"So  I  called  Mike,  here,  and  the  two  of  us  watched 
him.  When  he'd  made  sure  that  no  one  was  lookin' 
right  nor  left,  forrard  nor  back,  —  he  never  thought 
to  look  upwards,  you  see,  poor  devil,  —  what  does  he 
do  but  creep  up  to  the  edge  of  the  rock-bank,  dig  a 
small  hole,  and  shove  something  in  —  something  the 
size  of  yer  two  fists,  as  might  be.  Then  he  beats  it. 

"Well,  we  waits  till  noon  hour,  and  then  we  makes 
tracks  for  the  spot  where  he  buried  his  bone  and  we 
digs  it  up  for  him.  And  now  yer  got  it  yourself,  there 
in  yer  hand,  sir." 

That  bone's  outer  skin  was  a  blue  polka-dotted 
handkerchief.  Within  lay  four  objects :  — 

A  Colt's  "Police  Positive"  revolver,  32-calibre, 
bearing  the  maker's  number,  126505. 

A  Smith  &  Wesson  six-shooter,  32-calibre,  number 
213732,  blue  steel,  hand-ejecting. 


BIG  MINE  RUN  75 

A  United  States  nickel-plated  revolver,  32-calibre. 

A  razor  with  a  peacock  on  the  handle. 

"I  rather  think,"  observed  Sergeant  Smith,  "that 
that  chap,  whoever  he  was,  only  meant  to  hide  those 
guns,  not  to  destroy  them,  and  that  he  will  return  to 
look  for  them." 

"Gosh!"  suddenly  exclaimed  the  dump-hand. 
"See  yonder!  There's  the  very  fellow  himself  —  and 
—  you're  right,  blessed  if  you  ain't,  he's  makin'  fer 
his  cache!  —  See  him  dig,  the  tarrier!  He  misses  it! 
See  him  go  for  it !  —  Now  he 's  scared — he 's  quittin ! ' 
Oh,  oh,  look  at  him  run!" 

The  man  dashed  down  the  road  a  bit,  broke  through 
some  bushes,  and  disappeared.  But  in  a  moment  he 
was  out  again,  flying  back  for  the  dump. 

Sergeant  Smith  and  Private  Buono,  well  out  of 
sight,  moved  softly  and  swiftly  down  and  around 
into  the  shadow  of  the  bridge.  There  they  took  into 
their  keeping  one  Rocco  Rizzi,  a  figure  new  to  the 
play. 

Violently  protesting  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
matter  afoot,  that  he  had  hidden  no  revolvers  nor  any 
polka-dotted  package,  Rizzi,  nevertheless,  was  quietly 
removed  to  Schuylkill  County  Jail  and  there  commit- 
ted without  bail  —  on  a  formal  charge  of  carrying  con- 
cealed deadly  weapons. 

That  night  Maria  left  the  padrona's.  "Tony  says 
he'll  take  care  of  me  —  me  and  the  baby,"  she  told 
the  others,  bidding  them  good-bye.  "I  can  carry  the 
baby  and  the  suit-case  too,  till  Tony  meets  me.  And 
I'll  write  for  the  trunk  and  the  bed  when  we  get 
there." 


76          THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 


*  There'?  Where?"  asked  one  of  another  after  she 
had  disappeared  into  the  dingy  dark. 

"Where?   I  don't  know.   Tony  who?" 

"7  don't  know." 

"She's  only  a  slip  of  a  girl  to  be  without  friends 
or  kin,"  said  one. 

"Not  seventeen  yet,  she  told  me." 

"Would  it  be  Tony  Froio?" 

"Who  knows  —  there  are  many  Tonys.  Are  you 
tired  of  life,  then?  Have  you  no  affairs  of  your  own  to 
think  of?" 

Now,  of  the  three  deadly  weapons  concealed  by 
Rocco  Rizzi,  two  were  good  ones.  And  a  good  revolver, 
like  a  good  watch,  is  a  thing  that,  through  all  its  public 
career,  leaves  a  record  behind  it.  The  number  on  a 
good  revolver  is  preserved  by  each  succeeding  dealer, 
in  every  account  of  sale  and  shipment.  By  it  can  be 
determined  its  age,  and  also,  upon  occasion,  the  name 
of  the  individual  who  may  have  returned  it  for  repairs 
to  the  makers. 

Sergeant  Smith,  therefore,  without  loss  of  time, 
despatched  a  letter  of  inquiry  to  the  Smith  &  Wesson 
Fire  Arms  Manufacturing  Company  of  Springfield, 
Massachusetts,  and  another  to  the  Colt  Fire  Arms 
Company  at  Hartford,  Connecticut. 

Smith  &  Wesson  sent  back  their  reply  by  return 
of  mail:  Their  32-calibre  six-shooter,  number  213732, 
was  sold  July  9,  1915,  to  the  Belknap  Hardware  & 
Manufacturing  Company  of  Louisville,  Kentucky. 

The  Colt  Company,  four  days  later,  responded 
that  their  32-calibre  "Police  Positive,"  number 


BIG  MINE  RUN  77 

126505,  had  been  shipped  on  May  15,  1915,  to  the 
Bluefield  Hardware  Company  of  Bluefield,  West 
Virginia. 

Both  guns  were  now  traced  on  the  first  stage  of  their 
adventures. 

So  Sergeant  Smith  wrote  two  more  letters,  and, 
knowing  the  leisure  of  the  South,  soothed  his  soul  to 
patience.  In  ten  days'  time  returned  the  word  of  the 
Louisville  firm:  They  had  sold  the  six-shooter,  August 
31,  1915,  to  Mr.  D.  H.  Conner,  merchant,  of  Giatto, 
West  Virginia. 

Later  came  the  news  that  the  Bluefield  concern  had 
passed  on  the  Colt's  "Police  Positive"  to  the  Weya- 
noke  Coal  &  Coke  Company's  store.  And  the  address 
of  that  store  was  Lowe,  West  Virginia. 

"Huh!"  observed  Buono,  and  "Huh!"  answered 
Smith,  as  they  noted  the  fact. 

And  so  the  two  good  guns  yielded  their  second 
chapter  of  biography. 

Again  Sergeant  Smith  sat  down  to  his  pen.  Again 
he  wrote  two  letters,  the  first  to  Mr.  D.  H.  Conner,  of 
Giatto,  the  second  to  the  Weyanoke  Coal  &  Coke 
Company. 

After  some  days  Mr.  Conner  responded:  His  tale 
was  a  tale  of  sadness.  He  had  sold  that  very  six- 
shooter  early  in  December  to  an  unknown  Italian, 
who  had  come  into  his  shop  with  Frank  Dini.  Frank 
Dini  was  known  in  the  community.  He  was  a  coal 
miner.  When  Mr.  Conner  refused  to  trust  his  friend, 
" Charge  the  gun  to  me,"  Dini  had  said.  "I  will  settle 
next  Company  pay-day." 

But  now,  on  the  14th  of  March,  the  account  still 


78         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

stood  unsettled,  and  Frank  Dini  and  his  unknown 
companion  had  fled  the  State!  Incidentally,  remarked 
Mr.  Conner,  Dini  had  been  employed  by  the  Weya- 
noke  Coal  &  Coke  Company. 

Meantime,  the  Weyanoke  Coal  &  Coke  Company 
had  sent  in  its  reply.  It  stated  that  the  Colt  "Police 
Positive"  revolver  number  126505  was  sold  at  the 
Company  store,  November  17,  1915,  to  an  Italian 
named  Antonio  Froio.  This  man,  it  briefly  added, 
had  got  into  trouble  near  Lowe  on  December  20, 1915, 
and  had  immediately  fled  to  the  North. 

And  so,  in  the  third  authoritative  chapter  of  their 
history  did  the  two  good  guns  reveal  themselves  as 
in  private  hands. 

In  the  interval,  and  as  soon  as  the  name  of  the  Wey- 
anoke Coal  &  Coke  Company  appeared  in  the  corre- 
spondence, Sergeant  Smith  mailed  to  the  superinten- 
dent of  that  concern  a  copy  of  the  large  photograph 
found  in  the  murdered  Pangollo's  trunk  —  the  photo- 
graph showing  the  victim  as  the  central  figure  in  a 
group  of  thirteen  men,  taken  on  the  veranda  of  a 
house  whose  street  number  was  "60,"  by  a  photo- 
grapher of  Lowe. 

In  a  reasonable  time  this  photograph  was  returned 
with  each  figure  numbered  and  with  the  numbers 
supplemented,  on  the  reverse,  by  the  names  of  the 
individuals  portrayed.  "Domenico  Futtiatutti,  alias 
Valero,  alias  Joe  Pangollo,  reputed  Black-Hander 
and  bad  character,"  stood  written  against  the  cen- 
tral number,  while  the  three  immediately  surrounding 
it  also  indicated  supposed  Black-Handers  and  bad 
men. 


BIG  MINE  RUN  79 

Rocco  Rizzi,  burier  of  bones,  sitting  without  ap- 
pearance of  impatience  in  the  Schuylkill  County  Jail, 
steadfastly  denied  everything,  inclusively  every- 
thing, until  the  19th  of  March.  Then  he  suddenly 
began  to  speak.  It  was  to  Trooper  Buono  that  he 
unbosomed  himself  —  and  his  tale,  verbatim,  was 
this :  — 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  actual  murder.  I  was  away 
over  in  Frackville  the  night  it  was  done.  I  came  to 
live  in  Big  Mine  Run  after  that  time.  I  did  hide 
the  revolvers  and  the  razor,  but  I  only  had  them 
over-night  —  that  night,  you  know,  two  weeks  after 
Pangollo  was  killed. 

"This  is  the  way  it  was:  I  was  going  over  the  hill  to 
Rosa  Borrusco's  store  to  get  some  groceries  when  I 
met  four  men.  Three  I  knew.  The  fourth  I  did  not 
know.  The  three  were  Pietro  Santucci,  Pietro  Tia- 
foro,  and  Jim  Petrello.  Santucci  said:  — 

"Here,  take  these  guns  and  keep  them  for  me.' 

"I  told  them  I  was  afraid.  He  handed  me  the  pack- 
age, placed  his  finger  on  his  lips,  and  said:  — 
"Silence,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you.' 

"I  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  them,  so  I  hid 
them  in  the  rock-dump.  I  had  known  the  three  men 
in  Matoaka  and  in  Lowe,  West  Virginia.  Now  they 
have  all  gone  back  to  Lowe." 

Sergeant  Smith  and  Trooper  Buono,  armed  with 
warrants  for  Pietro  Santucci,  Pietro  Tiaforo,  Jim 
Petrello,  and  Antonio  Froio,  charged  with  murder, 
now  departed  for  West  Virginia.  Here,  in  and  about 
Lowe,  the  two  officers  soon  developed  certain  facts; 
as,  that  the  three  men  first  named  on  the  warrants 


80         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

were  unknown  in  that  region;  and  that  Jim  Pe- 
trello,  so  called  by  the  bone-burier,  was  identical  with 
Frank  Dini,  recorded  as  having  misleadingly  stood 
good  for  the  six-shooter  sold  early  in  December  to 
the  stranger  in  Mr.  Conner's  store. 

Also,  that  the  stranger  in  whose  behalf  the  six- 
shooter  had  thus  been  fraudulently  obtained  was  one 
Tony  or  Antonio  Froio. 

Further,  that  on  December  20,  1915,  Tony  Froio, 
Jim  Petrello,  alias  Frank  Dini,  Pasquale  Diolatti, 
and  another  man,  shot  a  man  at  Modac,  West  Vir- 
ginia, forthwith  escaping  across  the  Pennsylvania 
line. 

So  much  and  more  also  the  searchers  patiently 
threaded  out  of  the  obscure  fabric  before  them.  Deli- 
cately they  worked,  with  nice  advances  and  refrain- 
ings.  Incidentally,  and  as  a  precaution,  they  caused 
themselves  to  be  appointed  deputy  sheriffs  of  the 
West  Virginia  County  at  the  moment  their  province. 

Side  by  side  with  other  opening  scrolls  the  two 
Troopers  were  now  unrolling  the  past  of  the  murdered 
Pangollo.  Such  of  it  as  had  lain  within  the  West  Vir- 
ginia community  was  first  retraced.  Early  in  the  win- 
ter of  1914,  himself  a  murderer,  with  the  blood  of 
his  victim  hot  upon  his  hands,  Pangollo  had  fled 
from  Cincinnati  into  West  Virginia.  Drifting  into 
Lowe  as  a  stranger,  he  had  gone  to  the  house  of  one 
Pasquale  Mariano  to  lodge.  Here  he  had  first  seen 
Maria  Mariano,  then  only  just  past  her  thirteenth 
year,  but  lovely  with  the  promise  of  beauty  even  at 
that  tender  age. 

Months  passed,  and  with  them  the  little  creature 


BIG  MINE  RUN  81 

blossomed  and  ripened  as  only  a  girl  of  the  urgent 
Southern  blood  can  do.  Pangollo  watched  her  with 
nascent  interest.  Italian  girls  were  few  among  those 
hills.  But  the  child  was  a  child,  and  oblivious  of  him. 
And  he  had  a  pirate's  heart. 

Work,  to  a  man  of  Pangollo's  type,  has  no  signif- 
icance except  as  a  mask  for  the  chosen  business  of 
life.  Here  he  scarcely  pretended  to  work.  Conditions 
were  such  that  no  mask  was  needed. 

With  the  outlaw  fluid  that  ran  in  his  veins  ran  also 
the  instinct  of  leadership.  He  chose  his  gang  with 
skill,  —  the  gang  whose  picture  he  had  carried  away 
with  him,  —  and,  after  certain  grisly  demonstrations 
of  the  weight  of  his  displeasure  when  opposed,  easily 
reigned  as  a  Black  Hand  King,  feeding  upon  levies 
brought  in  by  his  henchmen. 

One  man  there  was,  however,  who  threatened  his 
preeminence.  Antonio  Froio,  younger  than  Pangollo, 
but  fully  his  match  in  reckless  outlawry,  not  only 
refused  to  bend  to  him,  but,  with  growing  insolence, 
threatened  his  supremacy  in  his  own  field. 

Froio  was  building  a  throne  of  his  own.  There  was 
scarcely  room  in  any  community  for  two  of  such  ar- 
rogant mind.  And  each  knew  in  his  heart  that  the  time 
would  come  when  blood  must  flow  between  them. 

Meantime,  little  Maria  was  ripening  fast.  Pan- 
gollo's eyes  were  filled  with  her.  But  her  parents  would 
not  give  her  into  his  hand.  Neither  did  the  girl  her- 
self seem  to  notice  him.  How  could  this  be?  Some- 
times she  laughed  the  simple  laughter  of  children  with 
Domenico  Niccolo,  that  sheep !  Perhaps  she  schemed. 
Perhaps  she  secretly  thought  of  Froio. 


8£         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Froio!  Per  Baccho,  che  insolenza!  She,  was  she  not 
the  King's  own  perquisite,  this  one  most  beautiful 
creature  in  all  the  hills?  Should  Froio  get  her?  Should 
her  miserable  parents  have  the  pleasure  of  withhold- 
ing her?  He  would  kill  them  all,  first.  Stick  them  hi 
the  back,  once,  twice,  thrice  and  a  twist,  like  impu- 
dent pigs  that  they  were! 

But  then,  in  the  depths  of  the  Ultimate  Pit  they 
might  escape  some  part  of  the  fulness  of  his  ven- 
geance! 

And  so,  with  these  things  burning  in  his  pirate's 
brain,  on  a  black  winter's  night  —  it  was  the  9th  of 
January,  1915  —  Pangollo  waylaid  the  child  in  a 
lonely  place,  frightened  her  into  silence,  dragged  her 
away  on  foot,  across  country  to  the  railway  station 
at  Rorthf ork,  whence  the  two  disappeared  from  ken. 

If  the  man  had  been  of  another  stamp,  —  if  human 
life  had  meant  anything  in  his  eyes,  —  you  could 
have  said  that  the  blood  he  had  spilled  bewitched 
him.  Else  why,  after  months  of  ceaseless  wanderings, 
did  he  drift  back  to  Cincinnati,  the  very  scene  of  his 
crime? 

There  Maria  still  shrank  from  him  —  tried  in  terror 
to  conceal  her  hatred  —  found  means  at  last  to  write 
to  her  parents,  begging  for  help  to  go  home.  But  the 
letter  came  back  unopened.  And  then  again  Pan- 
gollo's  restless  spirit  hurried  him  away.  So  that, 
dragging  the  girl  after  him,  he  wandered  over  the 
Pennsylvania  hills  into  Johnstown,  where  their  child 
was  born. 

Then  Maria  wrote  again  to  her  parents  —  poor, 
pretty  little  pawn.  "He  took  me  away  by  force,  sud- 


BIG  MINE  RUN  83 

denly,  even  without  my  clothes.  But  he  will  not 
marry  me.  And  he  will  not  let  me  have  the  child  bap- 
tized. Help  me  save  it  from  Purgatory.  I  beg  you  to 
forgive  me.  Let  me  come  home." 

What  had  they  to  forgive? 

But  Pangollo's  vengeance  bit  into  their  souls.  He 
had  shamed  them  before  their  world.  He  had  set  their 
will  aside.  He  had  deprived  them  of  all  their  dignity, 
all  their  proper  profits  in  due  disposal  of  the  girl. 
Now,  more,  he  had  made  her  a  byword  and  a  mockery 
to  them.  He  would  not  marry  her  I 

Should  they,  then,  take  back  his  dishonored  leav- 
ings into  their  home?  Their  resentment  flamed  too 
high  for  the  cloak  of  silence. 

"No,"  they  flung  back.  "We  have  no  place  here 
for  bastards  or  mothers  of  bastards.  Look  after  your- 
self. This  door  is  closed." 

Then  again,  when  the  child  was  three  months  old, 
the  fever  took  Pangollo.  To  Maria  he  issued  his 
command:  — 

"Domenico  Niccolo,  the  quiet  fellow  that  used  to 
board  with  your  father  —  that  Domenico  Niccolo  went 
to  Ashland,  over  to  the  east.  Write  to  him  now  — 
tell  him  you  are  married.  Ask  him  if  men  make  good 
money  in  his  place.  Tell  him  if  they  do  your  husband 
will  come  there  to  work"  —  and  he  leered  at  her, 
knowing  that  even  she  understood  what  manner  of 
"work"  appealed  to  a  throneless  Black  Hand  King. 

Meantime,  back  in  the  West  Virginia  mining  town, 
Antonio  Froio  had  risen  with  unexpected  ease  to  the 
coveted  supremacy.  From  the  day  of  Pangollo's  flight 
he,  as  head  of  his  own  gang,  ruled  the  field.  No  more 


84         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

did  he  soil  his  hands  with  work,  for  reasons  invisible 
waxing  in  sleek  prosperity.  So  all  went  well  with  him 
until  the  eleventh  day  of  the  eleventh  month  after 
Pangollo's  departure. 

On  that  day,  the  20th  of  December,  1915,  Tony 
Froio,  with  Frank  Dini,  Pasquale  Diolatti,  and  an- 
other of  his  gang,  in  shooting  a  man  who  had  dared 
to  cross  them,  tossed  off  the  deed  so  carelessly  that  for 
the  nonce  they  thought  well  to  fly  even  the  easy  ju- 
risdiction of  West  Virginia. 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  asked  the  three  of  Tony, 
their  lord. 

"Where  did  that  sheep  Domenico  Niccolo  go,  one 
year  or  more  past?"  asked  Tony.  "Wherever  he 
went  men  slave  and  have  fat  purses.  Ashland?  WV11 
skip  for  Ashland." 

So  these  four  also  took  to  flight  —  and  the  name  of 
the  fourth  among  them  was  Rocco  Rizzi,  a  name  we 
have  heard  before. 

So  much  did  Sergeant  Smith  and  Private  Buono 
personally  discover  —  or  shrewdly  surmise,  here  a  bit 
and  there  a  bit,  gleaning  over  the  field  at  large,  or 
down  among  the  Italians  of  Lowe. 

Not  that  the  Italians  of  Lowe  were  one  whit  less 
afraid  to  testify,  one  whit  less  bound  by  race  loyalties, 
one  whit  less  close-mouthed,  cautious,  and  devious 
than  their  like  elsewhere  —  not  that  they  consciously 
betrayed  such  matters,  whether  with  lips  or  eyes  or 
hands.  But  Sergeant  Smith  has  a  wise  and  wily  head, 
deep  experience,  enduring  patience;  Private  Buono's 
excellent  wits,  stimulated  by  an  apt  and  agile  imagina- 
tion, enjoy  the  command  of  all  Italian  dialects;  and 


BIG  MINE  RUN  85 

both  were  working  for  the  honor  of  "  C  "  Troop,  Penn- 
sylvania State  Police. 

Maria  Mariano's  father  saw  in  the  Troopers  two 
insurance  agents  trying  to  find  his  daughter  in  order 
to  pay  an  insurance  policy  carried  by  her  late  hus- 
band in  her  favor.  Mariano,  tardily,  began  to  repent 
something  of  his  harshness  to  the  girl.  He  even  wrote 
to  her  that  she  might  return  to  him,  sending  the  letter 
to  Ashland,  the  address  she  had  last  given.  But  it 
came  back  to  him  —  "Not  found." 

Now,  he  said,  he  would  bestir  himself.  He  would 
write  to  every  friend  to  whom  his  daughter  might 
appeal.  He  would  find  her  address,  and  he  would  give 
it,  when  found,  to  the  Manager  of  the  Weyanoke 
Coal  &  Coke  Company,  for  the  insurance  'agents'  use. 

But  the  "insurance  agents"  did  not  trust  him 
wholly.  They  surrounded  his  possible  intention  with 
an  invisible  net  of  care.  And  when  they  presently 
withdrew  from  the  scene  they  left  every  avenue  of 
mail  out  of  Lowe  and  of  all  adjacent  places  "covered" 
by  machinery  that  would  echo  in  their  own  ears  at 
the  passing  of  letters  to  any  of  the  persons  concerned 
in  the  case. 

Returning  to  Pennsylvania,  and  to  Schuylkill 
County  Jail,  they  again  questioned  the  prisoner  — 
Rocco  Rizzi,  burier  of  bones.  By  the  light  of  the 
knowledge  now  in  their  possession,  the  State  Troopers 
gained  significance  in  his  eyes.  Better  begin  making 
friends  with  such  men. 

"I  lied,"  said  Rocco  easily.  "I  did  know  the  fourth 
man  of  the  four  who  made  me  bury  those  guns.  His 
name  was  Antonio  Froio." 


86         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

In  the  little  village  of  Frackville,  close  to  Big  Mine 
Run,  lived  one  Joe  Rizzi,  cousin  to  the  bone-burier. 
This  man  was  a  cobbler  well  established  in  the  com- 
munity. As  a  citizen  of  substance,  with  savings  in  the 
bank,  and  with  a  good  business  to  protect,  Joe  Rizzi 
knew  that  his  true  interests  lay  not  with  law- 
breakers, whatever  the  terror  of  their  name,  but  with 
the  Law.  Also,  that  the  law-breaker  pursued  by  the 
State  Police,  while  possibly  varying  the  length  of  his 
rope,  found  always  a  noose  at  the  end  of  it.  Already 
the  line  of  the  Troopers'  inquiry  had  skirted  his  door 
too  close  for  his  comfort.  Now  it  entered  in.  Under 
its  thrust  he  decided  to  speak.  This,  in  brief,  is  the 
story  he  told,  cautiously  —  with  reserves  —  with 
semi-truths,  according  to  his  blood:  — 

On  the  day  that  Pangollo  was  killed,  he,  the  cob- 
bler, had  gone,  basket  on  arm,  to  Rosa  Borrusco's  shop 
in  Big  Mine  Run  to  buy  some  stores. 

Shortly  after  his  arrival,  Tony  Froio,  a  recent  comer 
to  the  settlement,  walked  into  the  house  in  company 
with  a  stranger,  Pangollo.  The  stranger  seemed  almost 
quarrelsome. 

"'Oh,  come  now,  sit  down,'  argued  Tony.  'Sit 
down  and  have  something  to  eat  with  me.' 

"'Eat  with  you!9  cried  Pangollo.  'I'll  have  your 
blood  before  this  day  is  done!'  And  then  he  scowled 
blackly  upon  a  girl,  yes,  a  beautiful  girl  —  Italian  — 
who  sat  listening  and  cowering  at  Rosa  Borrusco's 
side. 

"Then  this  Pangollo  went  out  on  the  porch  alone 
and  began  pacing  to  and  fro.  And  Proio  laughed  to 
himself.  And  I  went  home  to  be  out  of  it.  I  was  afraid, 


BIG  MINE  RUN  87 

and  heard  no  more  till  that  night  when  they  said  that 
Pangollo  was  killed. 

"And  it  was  Tony  Froio  that  gave  the  three  guns  to 
Rocco,  my  cousin,  —  Antonio  Froio  and  nobody  else. 
And  I  believe  it  was  Tony  that  killed  that  man  — 
Pangollo,  the  stranger." 

" .  .  .  If  we  take  this  chap  up  to  jail  and  let  him  have 
a  little  talk  with  his  cousin  — ?  "  reflected  Buono. 

"Exactly,"  said  Smith. 

After  that  little  talk,  the  burier  of  bones  expanded, 
by  yet  another  link. 

"I  lied,  also,"  he  remarked  ingenuously,  "when  I 
said  there  were  three  men  with  Tony  Froio  the  time 
he  gave  me  those  guns.  There  was  no  one  with  Tony 
Froio.  He  came  alone.  It  was  the  day  you  got  the 
bundle  out  of  the  rock-bank.  He  said  he  had  just 
shot  at  two  men  and  missed  them,  and  that  I  must 
hide  his  guns  until  he  wanted  them  again.  I  was 
afraid.  We  are  all  afraid  not  to  do  what  Tony  Froio 
says.  Because  Tony  stops  at  nothing  at  all." 

"But  I,"  volunteered  Joe  the  cobbler,  the  man  of 
vested  interests,  desiring  the  friendship  of  the  Law 
—  "7  will  help  you.  I  will  work  for  you.  I  believe  that 
Tony  Froio,  taking  the  girl  with  him,  has  gone  to  New 
York.  Let  us  go  to  New  York  together.  I  will  lead 
you  —  you  shall  seize  him  as  he  hides." 

For  Joe  felt  in  his  heart  that  these  two  quiet  sol- 
diers in  mufti,  being  wholly  familiar  with  the  psychol- 
ogy of  his  like,  were  in  no  way  deceived  by  his  protes- 
tations of  frankness  —  were  merely  biding  their  time 
with  him.  The  vision  that  he  saw  when  he  closed  his 
eyes  filled  his  veins  with  ice. 


88         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

How  should  he  clear  himself?  By  truly  telling  all  the 
truth?  The  thing  was  impossible  to  him.  And,  fly 
that  he  was  on  the  rim  of  the  wheel,  he  knew  that  these 
terrible  Troopers  understood  that  also. 

Once,  while  Buono  was  yet  a  first  enlistment  man, 
worrying  at  a  case  with  all  his  young  heart  and  mind, 
he  brought  home  a  certain  statement  extracted  from 
a  man  of  this  sort.  Repeating  it  carefully  to  the 
Barracks  reserve,  he  finished  with  pride:  "And  I  be- 
lieve the  fellow  was  speaking  the  truth." 

"Son,"  commented  the  First  Sergeant,  between 
draughts  on  his  good-night  pipe,  "listen  to  me:  There 
is  just  one  time,  with  any  of  these  people,  when  you 
might  properly  act  on  that  hypothesis  of  yours;  that 
time  is  when  your  man  confesses  to  murder  and  produces 
corroborative  evidence." 

And  every  old-timer  in  the  room  grinned  acqui- 
escence. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Buono  meekly,  to  those  assembled 
elders  in  mass. 

And  he  never  forgot  it.  Nor  do  the  elders  expect 
to  speak  twice. 

So,  not  visibly  in  company,  the  two  Troopers  and 
the  cobbler  moved  upon  the  city  of  New  York.  First 
to  a  Mulberry  Street  house,  then  to  several  places 
on  Mott  Street,  then  to  Brooklyn,  the  cobbler  led  the 
hunt,  but  without  success. 

"No  good.  About  eight  months  ago  Tony  Froio 
shot  a  man  in  Brooklyn,"  at  last  reported  the  friend  of 
the  Law,  crestfallen.  "He  will  scarcely  come  back  so 
soon." 

This  was  on  April  8th. 


BIG  MINE  RUN  89 

The  Troopers  returned  to  Pennsylvania,  working 
on  other  leads  —  working,  too,  on  unallied  quests  en- 
trusted to  their  care;  each  rubbing  down  his  horse  at 
night,  each  cleaning  stall  and  accoutrements  of  a 
morning  with  well-trained  hands,  while  his  mind 
wrestled  ceaselessly  with  plots  and  mystifications. 

Then,  on  April  24th,  came  the  first  fruits  of  the 
traps  set  upon  the  mails  of  West  Virginia.  The  Ital- 
ians living  in  the  house  of  Pasquale  Mariano,  in  Lowe, 
said  the  message,  were  sending  letters  to  Syracuse 
and  to  Fulton  in  New  York;  to  Plainfield  and  West- 
field  in  New  Jersey;  and  to  Cincinnati.  And  the  full 
addresses  on  these  letters  were  appended.  Further, 
Pasquale  Mariano  himself  had  received  a  letter  post- 
marked "Port  Richmond,  N.Y." 

Next  came  the  news  that  twice  a  week  Pasquale 
was  receiving  letters  from  Port  Richmond,  although 
none  were  going  thither  from  Lowe  or  from  any  of 
the  neighboring  post-offices.  How  else  might  mail  go 
out?  Through  mail  clerks  on  the  trains? 

Again  their  machine  fulfilled  its  purpose  and  the 
Troopers  learned  that  twice  a  week  a  little  Italian 
child  was  handing  letters  to  a  railway  mail  clerk 
at  a  small  station  on  the  Virginian  road  —  letters 

addressed:  "Mrs.  Maria  Mariano,  Box  88,  B y 

Avenue,  Staten  Island,  N.Y." 

The  scene  now  shifted  back  to  the  East.  Without 
the  loss  of  an  hour,  Smith  and  Buono  returned  to  New 
York,  to  Staten  Island,  to  determine  the  location  of 
Box  88.  Box  88  proved  to  be  a  wayside  receptacle  far 
out  on  a  country  road,  and  owned  by  the  keeper  of 
a  hotel  in  the  locality.  Several  Italians,  habitues  of 


90         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

his  tavern  or  dwelling  roundabout,  received  their 
mail  through  this  man's  agency.  The  address,  there- 
fore, was  somewhat  indefinite. 

The  Troopers  did  not  want  to  alarm  the  caution 
of  the  innkeeper  by  inquiring  of  him  directly.  To  do 
so  would  have  been  to  arouse  all  his  race  loyalty, 
all  his  fear  of  nameless  complications  and  conse- 
quences. So,  incognito,  they  watched  the  scattered 
Italian  settlement.  Three  days  and  nights  they 
watched  it,  without  fruit.  Meanwhile  they  arranged 
that  the  rural  mail-carrier  should  present  a  regis- 
tered letter  slip  at  the  hotel  office,  for  Maria. 

"Where  is  this  person?"  asked  the  postman,  slip 
in  hand. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  the  innkeeper. 

"But,"  persisted  the  postman,  "here  is  the  address 
—  your  address.  Can't  you  find  the  woman?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  the  wily  Italian.  "If  you 
send  the  letter  here  I'll  see  that  she  gets  it.  That's 
all  I  can  do  for  you." 

Then  the  two  officers  reversed  their  tactics.  De- 
claring themselves  openly,  they  pounced  upon  the 
innkeeper  with  all  brusqueness,  demanding  to  know 
what  he  had  done  with  letters  addressed  to  Maria  Ma- 
riano. What? 

The  man  stood  trembling  before  them.  Conflicting 
fears  held  him  helpless  and  confused. 

"Get  your  hat  and  coat,"  ordered  Smith. 

"But  —  but  —  it  was  not  I,  it  was  the  dish-washer 
that  carried  the  letters  away." 

"Then  call  the  dish-washer." 

Now  thoroughly  scared,  the   two  men  became 


BIG  MINE  RUN  91 

slightly  communicative.  Maria  Mariano,  with  her 
husband  and  baby,  lived,  they  said,  in  the  house  of 
another  Italian,  about  half  a  mile  from  the  inn.  They 
had  taken  some  rooms  —  were  housekeeping.  Maria's 
husband  worked  at  the  linoleum  factory  about  four 
miles  from  Port  Richmond. 

"If  you  should  be  lying,  now  — "  breathed  Buono, 
vaguely  suggestive.  He  had  watched  the  trolley  at 
the  linoleum  factory  for  two  mornings  and  two  nights. 
But  one  Italian  got  on  and  off  at  that  station. 

"How  does  this  man  get  to  his  work?"  he  con- 
cluded sharply. 

"By  a  bicycle  by  the  back  road." 

"We'll  see,"  said  Smith,  "and  meantime,  just  to 
make  sure  that  no  changes  take  place  behind  us,  we'll 
hobble  this  team." 

They  took  their  two  hostages  straight  to  a  neigh- 
boring police  box  in  which  an  officer  of  the  New  York 
City  force  is  always  to  be  found.  Into  the  keeping 
of  New  York  police  officials,  upon  whose  full  and 
friendly  cooperation  the  Troopers  of  the  sister  State 
have  found  they  can  always  rely,  they  now  handed 
the  dish-washer  and  his  padrone. 

Then  they  sped  for  the  linoleum  plant,  to  inspect 
its  books.  Five  Italians  had  entered  service  there 
during  the  past  two  weeks. 

"Will  you  let  me  see  these  men?"  asked  Smith. 

"Sure,"  said  the  foreman;  "come  on  over  into  the 
shop." 

The  first  Italian  that  they  saw  was  Antonio  Froio. 

Tony  lifted  his  handsome  head  at  the  shadow  of 
men  before  him  and  looked  the  two  officers  straight 


92         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

in  the  eye.  Slowly,  then,  a  great  shiver  ran  through 
him.  It  was  like  a  wave  of  relief,  and  you  could  see 
that  a  tension  died  out  of  his  frame. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come,"  he  said  simply  —  "I'm 
glad  you've  come.  I  suppose  you  want  me  for  mur- 
der—  because  I  went  away  with  Maria." 

Then,  when  they  had  put  him  in  safety,  they  went 
to  look  for  the  girl. 

In  a  shack  in  the  woods  they  found  her  —  a  little 
one-and-a-half-story  shack.  As  Sergeant  Smith  stood 
in  the  door  no  one  was  visible. 

"Maria!"  he  called,  in  his  quiet,  kindly  voice. 

"Ecco  mil"  came  the  answer,  quick  and  light,  as 
Maria's  lovely  face  appeared  at  the  top  of  the  ladder 
leading  to  the  room  above.  In  perfect  calm  she  gazed 
down  at  him,  smiling  slightly,  gently. 

"I  knew  you  would  come  to-day,"  she  said. 

"How?" 

"I  dreamed  it  last  night.  I  knew  it  all  the  time. 
You  got  Tony?  Yes,  I  know,  I  know." 

Before  leaving  the  shack  the  Sergeant,  looking  it 
over,  found  an  excellent  38-calibre  revolver,  all  cham- 
bers filled. 

But  the  girl's  one  concern  was:  — 

"My  baby  —  my  baby.  You  know  my  little  baby 
has  not  been  baptized?  " 

"Your  baby  shall  be  baptized,"  exclaimed  the  Ser- 
geant, —  "shall  be!  Do  you  understand?  Baptized 
to-night.  Don't  fret  about  that  any  more.  He  shall  go 
to  the  Sisters.  They  will  look  after  him  well  for  you 
till  you  want  him  again." 

Without  a  question  the  girl  accepted  the  comfort 


BIG  MINE  RUN  93 

that  her  instinct  told  her  she  could  trust.  That  night 
the  baby  slept  in  the  Guardian  Angels'  Home,  saved 
from  the  pains  of  Purgatory  —  and  that  night  Tony 
Froio,  in  his  cell,  tried  in  vain  and  by  a  very  terrible 
method  to  end  his  life. 

But  Maria,  faintly  smiling,  sat  silent  in  the  nimbus 
of  an  incredible  calm. 

The  arrests  of  Maria  and  Tony  occurred  on  the  18th 
of  May.  On  May  19th,  Privates  Buono  and  Flint, 
of  "  C  "  Troop,  State  Police,  arrested  Frank  Dini,  down 
in  the  dripping  black  alleys  of  a  coal  mine,  twelve 
hundred  feet  below  ground.  Following  clues  picked 
up  in  West  Virginia,  Buono  had  discovered,  weeks 
ago,  where  he  could  lay  hands  at  will,  not  only  upon 
Dini,  but  also  upon  Pasquale  Diolatti,  who,  with 
Rizzi  the  bone-burier,  had  fled  out  of  the  South  after 
Tony  the  King,  a  charge  of  murder  at  their  heels. 
Every  movement  of  the  two  had  been  known  to  the 
Troopers,  from  day  to  day.  But  no  obvious  notice 
had  been  taken  of  them  until  Tony  should  be  caught, 
lest  Tony  take  alarm.  At  this  stage,  however,  Dini 
could  safely  be  jailed,  as  a  material  witness. 

Now,  with  Tony  in  prison,  Joe  Rizzi  the  cobbler 
judged  the  chances  of  safety  to  indicate  further  obla- 
tion to  the  Law.  "I  dared  not  tell  all  the  truth  before. 
With  Tony  loose  it  was  too  great  a  risk.  They  would 
have  killed  me.  But  now  I  will  tell  you  everything. 
Listen :  — 

"The  day  that  Pangollo  was  murdered,  I  went  to 
Rosa  Borrusco's  store.  I  saw  Pangollo  and  Tony  Froio 
quarrelling  together.  I  saw  Pangollo,  very  angry,  go 
outside,  and  walk  up  and  down  on  the  porch,  talk- 


94         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

ing  to  himself  in  a  rage.  Then  I  left  the  place.  So 
much  I  told  you  before,  and  it  is  true. 

"But  I  lied  when  I  said  I  saw  no  more  that  day. 
That  afternoon,  a  little  before  the  shooting  of  Pan- 
gollo,  I  saw  Tony  Froio,  Joe  Froio  his  cousin,  and 
Domenico  Fruscu  —  those  three  together  —  coming 
toward  the  trolley  station  at  Woodland  Park. 

"I  know  no  more.  But  I  think  that  Joe  Froio  and 
Domenico  Fruscu  are  in  Syracuse,  New  York." 

Now,  Joe  Froio  and  Domenico  Fruscu,  familiars  of 
the  wider  circle  of  Big  Mine  Run,  had  already  been 
in  the  Troopers'  hands  —  arrested  while  planning  to 
leave  the  settlement  immediately  after  Pangollo's 
death.  The  Troopers  definitely  suspected  them,  but, 
for  lack  of  evidence  at  that  time,  could  not  keep  them 
under  arrest.  They  had  followed  the  later  movements 
of  the  pair,  however;  knew  that  they  had  gone  to 
Syracuse;  and  had  gradually  piled  up  a  collection  of 
addresses  in  that  place  —  addresses  at  which  the  sus- 
pects, when  wanted,  might  be  found. 

Incidentally,  they  had  discovered  that  Joe  the 
cobbler,  friend  of  the  Law,  must  possess  a  knowledge 
of  Syracuse  that  might  prove  useful  —  that  Joe,  in 
fact,  had  once  lived  in  Syracuse  for  a  considerable 
time,  part  of  which  he  had  passed  hi  prison,  convicted 
of  larceny  and  of  carrying  concealed  deadly  weapons. 

On  May  26th,  Judge  Tiernan,  of  the  County  of 
Richmond,  New  York,  pursuant  to  a  writ  for  extra- 
dition and  in  accordance  with  section  827  of  the 
Criminal  Procedure  of  the  State,  gave  over  the  per- 
sons of  Antonio  Froio  and  Maria  Mariano  into  the 
hands  of  Sergeant  Smith  and  Private  Buono. 


BIG  MINE  RUN  95 

"Only  let  me  have  my  bambino,"  begged  Maria, 
when  they  told  her  that  once  more  she  must  move 
on. 

So  the  good  Sisters  came  to  her,  bringing  the  child, 
clothed  now  in  dainty  and  ample  garments,  and,  with 
words  of  gentle  comfort,  laid  him  in  her  arms. 

On  the  way  back  to  Pennsylvania,  Tony  spoke 
little.  But  once  he  said:  — 

"Have  you  got  my  cousin,  Joe  Froio,  and  Domenico 
Niccolo?  They  fired  the  shots  that  killed  Pangollo, 
not  I." 

Later,  in  the  Schuylkill  County  Jail,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  District  Attorney  Charles  A.  Whitehouse,  of 
Sergeant  Smith,  and  of  Private  Buono,  Tony  denied 
every  damaging  accusation. 

"I  did  purchase  the  Colt  *  Police  Positive'  re- 
volver at  the  Weyanoke  Coal  &  Coke  Company  Store 
at  Lowe.  But  I  sold  it  last  October  to  my  cousin, 
Joe  Froio. 

"I  never  bought  a  revolver  at  Conner's  store  in 
Giatto,  which  Frank  Dini  stood  good  for. 

"I  was  not  in  a  shooting  scrape  in  Modac,  West 
Virginia,  on  December  20,  1915. 

"On  the  day  of  the  murder  at  Big  Mine  Run,  I 
asked  Pangollo  to  have  something  to  eat  with  me.  He 
refused.  I  then  went  for  a  walk  by  myself.  When  I 
came  back,  I  heard  he  was  killed. 

"Two  days  after  the  murder,  as  I  was  coming  up 
the  steps  of  Rosa  Borrusco's  house,  I  heard  Joe  Froio, 
my  cousin,  and  Domenico  Fruscu  and  Domenico 
Niccolo  talking  inside. 

"'We  won't  run  away  now,'  they  said.]  'The  State 


96         THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Troopers  have  let  us  go.  They  don't  seem  to  have 
any  suspicions  at  all.' 

"Then  my  cousin  Joe  said:  *I  had  the  Special  and 
got  a  good  shot  at  him.' 

"Fruscu  said:  *I  had  only  the  little  revolver  and 
could  n't  do  much.' ' 

After  which  Tony  was  returned  to  the  solitude  of 
his  cell. 

The  prisoner,  Frank  Dini,  was  now  questioned:  — 

"I  was  in  Lowe,  on  December  20th,"  he  affirmed. 
"Tony  Froio,  Pasquale  Diolatti,  and  I  did  shoot  a 
man  in  Modac  on  that  day.  All  three  of  us  fired.  Tony 
was  using  a  Smith  &  Wesson  six-shooter  that  he  got 
and  that  I  stood  good  for  at  Mr.  Conner's  store  in 
Giatto.  After  that  shooting,  five  of  us  ran  away 
North.  We  came  to  Big  Mine  Run  on  Christmas 
Eve." 

But  when  Dini,  brought  face  to  face  with  Tony 
Froio  in  the  office  of  the  jail,  repeated  this  statement, 
Tony  categorically  denied  all. 

"How,  then,"  asked  Sergeant  Smith,  "did  you 
regain  possession  of  the  revolver  that  you  bought  in 
WTest  Virginia?  Where  did  you  get  the  revolvers  that 
you  gave  to  Rocco  to  bury?  " 

"On  February  24th  last,"  Tony  replied,  "I  went 
out  into -the  woods  with  Domenico  Niccolo,  Joe 
Froio,  my  cousin,  and  Domenico  Fruscu.  These 
three,  after  taking  me  into  the  woods,  drew  revolvers 
and  started  to  fire  on  me.  I  ran  and  fell  down,  to 
deceive  them.  I  suppose  they  thought  they  had  killed 
me. 

"Later  I  saw  them  hide  the  guns  and  a  razor  under 


BIG  MINE  RUN  97 

a  rock.  I  watched  them  from  the  window  of  an  old 
house.  Then,  when  they  were  gone,  I  stole  out,  got 
the  guns  and  the  razor,  and  gave  them  to  Rocco  to 
keep  for  me. 

"The  next  day  I  wanted  the  revolvers,  so  I  sent  to 
Rocco  to  get  them.  He  came  back  and  told  me  they 
were  gone.  Then  we  both  went  to  hunt,  but  could  not 
find  them. 

"On  February  26th  I  left  for  New  York  with 
Maria." 

Then  Maria  was  questioned. 

"What  can  I  say!"  sighed  she.  "While  we  lived 
in  the  woods,  over  there  in  New  York,  Tony  told  me 
he  did  the  murder.  Again,  he  told  me  that  it  was  not 
true  —  that  he  had  only  been  fooling  me.  What  can 
I  say?  What  do  I  know?" 

Later,  of  her  own  accord,  she  sent  a  message  to  Ser- 
geant Smith,  begging  him  to  come  to  her  in  her  cell. 
Sergeant  Smith  had  been  always  gentle  with  her,  and 
she  had  known  but  little  gentleness  in  her  life.  And 
he  had  got  her  baby  baptized!  She  felt  very  lonely 
and  apart.  She  would  like  to  talk  a  little,  to  his  friendly 
face. 

She  detailed  to  him  the  story  of  her  life  as  Pan- 
gollo's  companion  —  the  story  of  their  rapid  moves 
from  point  to  point,  as  his  restless  mind,  or  purpose 
foiled,  or  some  fresh  act  of  guilt  drove  him  on;  told  of 
the  birth  of  the  baby,  and  dwelt  again  on  Pangollo's 
steadfast  refusal  to  let  its  soul  be  saved  —  partly  for 
love  of  tormenting  her  parents,  partly  because  he 
feared  the  inevitable  questioning  of  the  priest  and 
what  it  might  uncover;  told  of  their  arrival  in  Mount 


98         THE  STANDARD-BEAREES 

Cannel,  near  Big  Mine  Run,  on  the  night  of  January 
28th,  and  of  Pangollo's  bestowal  of  her  and  the  baby 
in  the  house  of  the  brother  of  a  member  of  Pangollo's 
West  Virginia  gang;  told  of  her  remaining  alone  there 
that  night,  and  of  Pangollo's  reappearance  next  day 
in  company  with  Domenico  Niccolo  and  Tony  Froio, 
both  of  whom  she  had  seen  in  her  father's  house  in 
Lowe,  before  Pangollo  stole  her  away  —  before  her 
troubles  began;  told  how,  in  company  with  these 
and  other  men,  she  had  gone  on  the  trolley  to  Big 
Mine  Run,  and  how  Tony  Froio  had  spoken  to  her 
kindly  on  the  way  —  spoken  about  Lowe,  her  father, 
and  the  baby,  —  while  Pangollo  seemed  strangely 
brooding;  told  of  their  arrival  at  Rosa  Borrusco's 
house  that  night;  told  how,  the  next  noon,  in  the  pa- 
drona's  place,  when  Tony  invited  Pangollo  to  eat, 
Pangollo  refused  with  fury;  told  how  all  the  men  then 
drifted  out  of  the  house,  singly  or  in  groups,  and  how, 
later,  looking  from  the  window,  she  saw  Pangollo  and 
three  others  going  up  the  road  together.  Their  backs 
were  turned;  therefore  she  did  not  recognize  them. 
After  that  she  saw  Pangollo  no  more. 

"Then,  you  said  Pangollo  was  dead.  ...  I  had  no 
place  to  go.  .  .  .  My  father  would  not  have  me.  .  .  . 
There  was  no  place  to  go.  ...  And  by  and  by  Tony 
said  he  would  take  me  and  my  baby. 

"So,  I  went  with  Tony." 

That  day,  Sergeant  Smith's  regular  report  to  his 
Troop  Captain  contained  these  words:  — 

"I  do  not  think  that  it  will  be  necessary  to  for- 
ward the  description  and  addresses  we  have  to  the 
Police  Department  of  Syracuse,  as  Private  Buono 


BIG  MINE  RUN  99 

and  I  will  be  able  to  identify  the  men.  And,  better 
still,  if  it  were  possible  to  take  Joe  Rizzi  along,  he 
could  help  us  to  locate  the  two;  and  their  arrest  would 
be  a  simple  matter  if  they  are  either  in  that  city  or  in 
Fulton,  New  York." 

Joe  Rizzi  the  cobbler,  now  thoroughly  scared  by 
the  visible  tightening  of  the  net  of  the  Law,  alacri- 
tously  agreed  to  do  as  he  was  asked.  Carrying  Joe 
with  them  the  two  Troopers  betook  themselves  once 
more  across  the  border. 

Quick  and  true  they  struck  into  the  seething,  hiving 
mass  of  the  foreign  quarter  of  Syracuse.  On  the  very 
day  of  their  arrival  in  that  town  they  had  their  men. 

"Arrests  made.  Awaiting  extradition  papers. 
Hotel  St.  Cloud,"  — the  Sergeant  telegraphed  his 
Captain  that  night. 

And  so  the  party  in  the  clean  white  cells  of  the 
Schuylkill  County  Jail  was  rounded  out  at  last. 

But  the  party  was  not  congenial.  Even  from  its 
several  cells  on  their  several  tiers  it  found  means  of 
inter-accusations.  It  whispered  things  at  night,  in 
hisses  lent  wings  by  hatred.  And  Maria,  with  her 
baby  in  her  arms,  sat  silent  in  the  midst,  hearing  all. 

"But  hold  your  tongue,  fool!"  they  would  finally 
adjure  each  other.  "If  such  a  miracle  can  happen  as 
that  you  hold  your  tongue  and  tell  nothing  to  Smith, 
the  carabiniero,  we  shall  all  go  free  yet.  Hold  your 
tongue!" 

To  the  intermittent  questioning  of  the  two  Troopers, 
however,  the  prisoners  answered  for  a  time  very  stead- 
ily, each  with  his  original  tale. 

"Joe  Froio,  my   cousin,  Domenico  Niccolo,  and 


100        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Domenico  Fruscu  tried  to  shoot  me  in  Woodland 
Park  on  February  24th,"  Antonio  Froio  doggedly  per- 
sisted. "I  know  nothing  of  the  murder  of  Pangollo." 
"Tony  Froio  tried  to  shoot  Domenico  Niccolo  and 
me,  in  Woodland  Park,  about  February  24th,"  main- 
tained Joe.  "And  I  was  away  over  in  Frackville  at 
the  time  of  the  murder  and  knew  nothing  of  it." 

"I  was  in  Frackville  when  Pangollo  was  murdered. 
I  know  nothing,"  Fruscu  repeated  always. 

Then  Joe  Rizzi  the  cobbler,  friend  of  the  Law,  — 
he  who  had  three  times  already  told  "all"  that  he 
knew,  —  discovered  yet  another  mite  in  the  depths  of 
his  sack. 

"I  —  with  these  ears  of  mine  that  you  see  —  I 
heard  Tony  Froio  say,  on  the  day  of  Pangollo's  mur- 
der, that  he  would  'do  the  job  before  night.'  And  I 
saw  him  —  quite  plainly  I  saw  him  —  hand  a  revolver 
to  Joe  Froio,  his  cousin." 

"Now,"  said  the  Sergeant,  with  an  extraordinary 
mildness,  "there  is  yet  another  thing  you  might  do, 
Joe.  You  might  tell  just  that  to  Joe  Froio  and  to 
Fruscu.  And  will  you  tell  them,  too,  that  you  will  so 
testify  in  court?  And  that  you  will  also  testify  that 
you  saw  them  both  at  Rosa  Borrusco's  on  the  day  of 
the  murder?" 

"I  will  do  anything,"  groaned  the  cobbler,  "to  earn 
your  honor's  favor.  But  surely  it  will  be  reckoned  a 
shield  to  me  before  the  Law?" 

"Joe,"  answered  the  Sergeant,  in  heavy  tones, 
"nothing  can  change  the  truth  that  you  are  an  acces- 
sory after  the  fact." 

Meantime,  Maria  sat  in  her  cell,  nursing  her  baby. 


MARIA  SAT  IN  HER  CELL,  NURSING  HER  BABY 


BIG  MINE  RUN 

The  place  was  very  white  and  clean  and  bare.  Some 
of  the  other  cells  had  carpets,  framed  family  photo- 
graphs, pictures  of  saints  and  of  naked  dancing-girls 
impartially  mingled,  and  embroidered  mottoes,  such 
as,  "God  Bless  Our  Home."  But  Maria's  cell  was 
white  and  clean  and  bare.  She  swept  it  daily  with  the 
broom  they  gave  her.  She  made  her  bed  trig  and  firm. 
She  smoothed  her  black  hair  till  it  shone  like  polished 
jet,  and  she  ran  her  big  silver  dagger  through  its 
coils  at  an  angle  that  filled  the  place  with  vitality. 

Her  dress  was  neat  and  careful.  And  she  kept  her 
baby  clean.  Her  beauty  remained  undimmed,  and 
one  judging  from  her  gentle  manner  and  her  delicacy 
of  feature  would  have  thought  her  a  well-brought- 
up  girl  of  intelligent  and  superior  stock  —  would  have 
said,  moreover,  that  she  had  seen  nothing  of  life's 
seamy  side. 

But  Tony,  in  his  distant  cell,  was  troubled  con- 
cerning her.  Would  she  desert  him?  He  knew  that  the 
sergeant  of  State  Police  saw  her  frequently.  What 
was  she  saying  to  him?  Tony's  hot  brain  tore  at  the 
doubt  till  it  stabbed  and  blazed  within  him. 

He  wrote  her  note  after  note,  putting  each  on  the 
dustpan  that  took  the  daily  sweepings  of  his  cell.  The 
prisoner  who  collected  the  pans  was  his  fellow-pris- 
oners' secret  messenger.  But  this  time  the  missives 
tended  to  wander  astray. 

At  first  the  notes  that  Private  Buono  translated 
carried  only  messages  imploring  caution.  All  de- 
pended on  Maria,  urged  the  writer.  Let  her  talk  as 
little  as  possible.  Let  her  tell  nothing  to  Buono  or 
to  Smith. 


102        TIpS  STANDARD-BEARERS 

As  for  himself,  the  carabinieri  did  not  visit  him. 
But  he  knew  that  they  talked  with  Maria  every 
second  day,  and  all  night  he  wept  in  his  cell  for  fear 
of  what  she  might  have  told  them.  Let  her  be  care- 
ful that  they  did  not  confuse  her  and  lead  her  into 
speaking  of  him  that  which  would  separate  them 
forever.  Let  her  be  wise,  and  in  a  little  while,  free, 
he  should  hold  her  in  his  arms. 

The  Troopers  left  the  man  un visited  still.  His  own 
thoughts  were  merciless  visitants,  and  the  strain  of 
doubt  and  surmise  the  surest  educers  of  the  truth. 

The  notes  grew  frantic,  under  the  torment  of  soli- 
tude, silence,  and  dread: 

"Fidelity  to  you.  A  thousand  kisses  to  you.  Oh, 
my  dear,  if  you  love  me,  I  love  you.  If  you  love  me 
not,  then  my  love  for  you  is  dead.  And  listen:  If  you 
desire  to  survive  with  me,  then,  when  Smith  talks  to 
you,  tell  him  that  I  was  shot  at.  That  I  gave  the 
revolvers  to  you  and  told  you  they  belonged  to  Do- 
menico  Niccolo,  and  Joe  Froio,  my  cousin.  Tell  him 
also  that  when  you  heard  that  the  revolvers  were 
never  mine,  you  did  not  want  me  to  keep  them  at  all 
and  you  told  me  to  throw  them  away.  And  that  I 
then  did  throw  them  away.  And  if  you  tell  this  to 
Smith,  all  will  be  well,  because  you  are  believed  by 
Smith,  and  I  would  not  be  believed  by  him  at  all. 
So  tell  him  this  only,  and  if  you  love  me  tell  no 
more.  Remember  that  all  you  tell  is  written  down. 
And  you  must  write  to  me  as  I  write  to  you,  and 
tell  me  what  they  say  about  me.  Because  they  never 
come  to  see  me  at  all." 

Then,  at  last,  receiving  no  answer  and  robbed  by 


BIG  MINE  RUN  103 

the  gnawing  devil  within  him  of  the  final  atom  of  light, 
Tony  scrawled  upon  papers  furious  charges,  couched 
in  words  from  the  pit:  Maria  was  false  to  the  utter- 
most fibre  of  her  being.  The  dregs  of  womanhood  had 
been  dragged  for  vices  when  she  was  born.  Her  si- 
lence now  proved  her  treachery.  Let  her  take  care 
how  she  scorned  him.  He  would  denounce  her  to 
the  carabinieri.  He  would  say  that  she  —  she  and 
no  other  —  had  urged  him  to  kill  Pangollo.  Now  she 
was  tired  of  him,  Tony,  also.  Now  she  wanted  him 
out  of  her  way  so  that  she  might  in  safety  enjoy  a  new 
lover.  Men!  Men!  What  did  the  lives  of  men  matter 
to  her,  so  long  as  she  had  plenty  of  them!  Whore! 
Carrion!  Ghoul! 

Sergeant  Smith  brought  Maria  into  the  prison 
parlor.  There  he  spread  before  her  all  the  notes  that 
had  come  to  his  hand. 

Maria,  having  read  them  once  in  silence,  went 
back  to  her  cell  and  returned  with  yet  six  others.  To- 
gether they  made  for  their  author  a  terrible  array. 

But  the  mad  last  note  did  more  than  that  —  it  un- 
covered in  the  girl  all  the  native  fire  of  Sicily. 

For  the  last  three  years  a  wanderer,  a  fugitive,  a  toy 
of  wild  men's  whims,  she  had  led  a  life  of  privation, 
suffering,  dread.  And  she  had  not  yet  reached  her 
seventeenth  birthday!  By  childhood  tendency  gentle 
and  cool,  the  necessity,  even  in  her  father's  house,  of 
obedience  to  the  arbitrary  wills  around  her  had  kept 
her  from  the  normal  development  of  her  kind  —  had 
kept  her  self-effacing,  submissive,  speechless,  patient, 
almost  without  individual  life.  Blows  she  had  borne 
from  more  hands  than  one,  as  a  matter  of  course. 


104        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Pangollo  had  filled  her  with  terror,  whether  in  his 
love  or  in  his  horrible  malice.  Her  father's  heartless 
dismissal  of  her  plea  for  escape  and  rescue  had  im- 
posed still  another  stone  against  the  prison  door  of  her 
hot  Southern  blood.  She  had  dropped  with  scarcely  a 
new  emotion  from  the  loosened  grip  of  Pangollo  into 
Froio's  outstretched,  passion-mad  hands.  It  was  a 
part  of  her  fate.  Froio  had  offered  her  asylum,  with 
her  child.  Afterward,  he  had  struck  her,  sometimes. 
He  gave  her  food  and  shelter — and  in  the  main  he 
had  meant  to  be  good.  She  had  no  particular  feeling 
for  him  in  any  way. 

Never  in  her  life,  either  now  or  at  any  earlier  time, 
had  it  seemed  relevant  that  she  should  particularly 
feel. 

But,  here  was  this  letter  —  this  last  letter  —  some- 
thing new.  She  read  it  again  and  yet  again,  drawing 
together  her  level  brows,  while  a  slow  flame  rose  be- 
hind the  mystic  veil  of  her  eyes. 

When  she  lifted  her  head  at  last  and  looked  at  the 
Sergeant,  it  was  another  creature  that  confronted 
him.  The  veil  was  gone.  She  had  been  born  anew. 

"I  am  afraid  no  longer,"  she  said.  "Let  them  kill 
me  when  they  are  ready.  The  Black  Hand  will  kill  me. 
That  is  sure.  They  belong  to  it,  every  one  of  them. 
But  —  what  does  anything  matter,  after  words  like 
these!"  —  and  she  struck  the  paper  with  the  gesture 
that  would  have  driven  a  blade.  "Now,  write  down 
clearly  what  I  shall  tell  you  and  be  quick." 

"Are  you  ready?  Good!  When  Joe  Pangollo  left 
the  house  of  Rosa  Borrusco,  five  minutes  before  he 
was  killed,  the  three  men  who  went  with  him  were 


BIG  MINE  RUN  105 

Tony  Froio,  Joe  Froio,  and  Domenico  Fruscu.  Five 
minutes  before  he  was  killed,  I  say. 

"Is  it  written?   Good.   Write  once  more:  — 

"  Three  nights  ago,  when  the  prison  was  asleep  and 
still  as  death,  Tony  Froio  called  softly  over  to  Joe,  his 
cousin,  and  said :  — 

"'Do  not  be  afraid  that  Fruscu  will  tell  who  killed 
our  man.  He  dare  not,  for  you  remember  it  was  he 
who  fired  the  first  shot.'" 

Then  the  Sergeant  ordered  Joe  Froio  to  be  brought 
into  the  room.  Very  coolly  Maria  made  her  statement 
to  his  face. 

The  man  being  withdrawn,  Fruscu  was  produced, 
and  Maria  as  coolly  repeated  her  words.  Like  Joe, 
Fruscu  denied  their  truth  utterly. 

Last,  Tony  Froio  was  led  into  the  room.  At  the 
first  glimpse  of  him,  all  the  chained-up  force,  all  the  ac- 
cumulated resentments  of  long  years  of  silent  suffer- 
ing, burst  into  blaze.  The  girl's  slight  body  swayed 
like  a  tree  in  a  storm.  The  daughter  of  ^Etna  had 
found  herself! 

In  whispers  like  the  strike  of  a  snake,  she  repeated 
the  things  he  had  said  of  her,  the  names  he  had  called 
her  in  his  last  mad  note, — that — and  that — and  that ! 

"And  you  thought  you  could  frighten  me  so!"  she 
ended  in  final  fierce  contempt.  "  But  for  this  folly  I 
would  never  have  spoken.  For  you  did  feed  me  and 
my  child.  But  now  —  I  will  gladly  die  to  make  you 
pay." 

"You  told  me  to  kill  Pangollo,"  Tony  threw  back. 

"You  lie  —  lie  —  lie !  But  you  told  me  you  killed 
him.  See!  Bring  me  a  crucifix  and  let  me  swear!" 


106        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Tony,  railing  bitterly,  denied  everything.  But 
that  night  in  his  cell,  he  wrote  another  note,  seeking 
to  undo  his  mistake:  — 

"Oh,  my  pretty  wife,  —  I  excuse  all  your  words 
because  I  know  you  are  mad.  I  will  love  you  to  the 
hour  of  my  death  because  you  are  the  flower  of  my 
life.  I  salute  you  with  a  thousand  kisses  on  your 
sweet  lips,  and  then  again  I  kiss  you.  And  I  pray  you 
when  Smith  comes,  do  not  talk." 

Herewith  the  case  entered  upon  a  fresh  phase. 
Antonio  Froio,  Joe  Froio,  and  Domenico  Fruscu, 
newly  informed  against  for  the  joint  murder  of  Pan- 
gollo,  were  arraigned  accordingly  and  committed 
without  bail.  Maria  Mariano  and  Domenico  Nic- 
colo,  released  from  charges,  were  recommitted  as 
material  witnesses.  Rosa  Borrusco,  Frank  Dini,  and 
a  swarm  of  other  minor  characters  were  kept  securely 
within  reach  of  hand. 

And  now  came  a  day  when  Sergeant  Smith,  late  of 
the  Sixth  United  States  Cavalry,  and  Private  Buono, 
late  of  the  Twelfth,  dropped  in  at  the  house  of  Rosa 
Borrusco  for  a  friendly  call. 

Singularly,  it  happened  that  all  of  the  padrona's 
lodgers  were  at  home  at  that  time.  And,  equally 
casually,  it  chanced  that  not  one  of  them  left  the 
place  until  the  Troopers  were  ready  to  see  him  go.  For 
the  two  old  campaigners,  shut  into  that  house  in  the 
midst  of  the  villainous  gang,  appreciated  to  the  last 
stiletto's  point  at  their  backs  exactly  what  risk  they 
ran,  and  knew  exactly  how  to  handle  it. 

Also,  during  the  past  few  months  of  inquiry,  they 
had  accumulated  an  extraordinary  amount  of  data 


BIG  MINE  RUN  107 

concerning  the  life  histories  of  this  company.  And, 
again,  if  one  were  to  dispose  of  them  quietly  now, 
among  discreet  friends,  other  Troopers  and  yet  others 
would  follow  to  avenge  their  taking-off.  State  boun- 
daries, time,  space,  alarms,  and  obstacles  would  mean 
nothing  in  their  path.  And  sooner  or  later  would  come 
the  electric  chair.  So  —  better  let  Tony  and  Joe  and 
Domenico  go  first.  Yes,  one  and  all,  gladly  would  the 
padrona's  household  appear  at  the  jail  to  confront 
the  three  prisoners.  Gladly  would  they  affirm  that 
Pangollo  had  walked  forth  from  their  sight  with  that 
trio  —  with  Tony,  Joe,  and  Domenico  —  five  min- 
utes before  his  end. 

So  it  was  done.  And  under  that  pressure,  Joe  Froio 
and  Domenico  Fruscu  "broke." 

Out  of  the  roots  of  the  several  confessions  the  truth 
now  sprang  to  light.  With  the  threads  of  the  several 
stories  —  some  long  and  complicated,  some  of  the 
briefest,  yet  essential  to  the  whole  —  was  rewoven 
the  tragedy  of  the  past,  was  substantiated  the  theory 
built  by  the  Troopers  in  Lowe.  Clearly  enough,  all 
links  supplied,  its  sequence  stood  for  a  logical  whole. 

Pangollo,  natural  bandit,  bird  of  prey,  blood-guilty, 
fleeing  from  the  feet  of  the  pursuers,  came  to  the 
mountains  of  West  Virginia.  Here,  by  the  knowledge 
common  to  his  kind,  he  knew  he  should  find  no  law. 
Statutes  stood  upon  the  books,  without  doubt,  but 
who  was  there  to  enforce  these  statutes?  Such  as  he 
could  defy  "the  authorities"  almost  at  will.  There- 
fore, the  region  was  their  asylum  and  their  happy  hunt- 
ing-ground in  very  fact.  He  preferred  an  Italian  com- 
munity for  his  manner  of  life,  since  Italians  were 


108        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

already  educated  to  the  methods  of  The  Society  and 
the  education  saved  time.  So  he  came  to  Lowe  and 
there,  by  force  of  the  dominance  of  his  nature,  proved 
in  a  few  drastic  examples,  rapidly  established  himself 
as  Black  Hand  King. 

For  a  time  he  throve  undisputed.  His  tolls  were 
paid  humbly,  from  each  vassal's  weekly  wage.  He 
wore  fine  clothes,  and  his  dagger  hand  was  calloused 
by  no  sordid  tool  of  toil.  To  make  his  kingship  richer, 
the  prize  of  beauty  budded  within  his  reach.  And 
then  came  the  pretender  —  the  rival  —  to  threaten 
all. 

Tony,  younger  in  years  and  experience,  but  with  a 
spirit  as  wild  and  reckless  as  his  own,  dared  make 
himself  friends  and  followers  —  even  dared  look  him 
straight  in  the  eye  and  laugh.  And  there  was  some- 
thing in  Tony's  laugh  that,  while  it  stirred  every 
devil  within  him,  still  kept  his  hand  from  the  butt  of 
his  gun  —  twitching  just  off  the  butt  of  his  gun. 

Yet,  were  it  only  for  supremacy  as  expressed  in 
levies  of  cash,  he  would  have  finished  it  brusquely, 
with  lead  or  steel.  But  there  was  more  —  there  was 
the  girl — the  loveliest  thing  in  the  mountains,  coveted 
by  every  man  that  had  seen  or  heard  of  her.  She  was 
the  very  symbol  of  the  crown.  To  be  killed  by  Tony 
would  be  to  leave  her  to  Tony's  hand.  To  kill  Tony 
and  possibly  be  obliged  to  fly  might  be  to  leave  the 
girl  behind.  Her  indifference,  too,  maddened  him. 
How  could  she  be  indifferent  to  him,  the  King?  Had 
she  another  image  in  her  heart  —  behind  her  mild 
eyes? 

Then  came  her  father's  refusal,  incredibly  daring, 


BIG  MINE  RUN  109 

and  Tony's  level  gaze  and  Tony's  laugh.  He,  Pan- 
gollo,  must  be  revenged  on  them,  every  one. 

He  laid  his  plan.  It  would  cost  him  his  present 
kingdom,  to  be  sure,  but  others  lay  ripe  for  the  tak- 
ing, and  the  game  was  worth  the  sacrifice.  He  would 
mock  his  rival  by  snatching  the  girl  from  under  his 
hand.  He  would  flay  old  Pasquale  by  making  his 
daughter  a  shame  to  his  name.  As  for  the  girl  herself 
—  he  would  have  her  at  his  leisurely  mercy. 

So  he  stole  the  child  away,  and  for  almost  a  year 
dragged  her  after  him,  in  his  fevered  repetition  of  crime 
and  flight.  Hither  and  yon  they  wandered,  Pangollo 
adding  hither  and  yon  to  the  sum  of  his  villainies. 

Meanwhile  Tony,  his  rival,  back  in  the  Southern 
hills,  was  ruling  over  the  field  that  had  been  his  own. 
Work  was  abundant  there,  and  the  new  King  lightly 
took  his  toll  of  each  man's  earnings.  He  toiled  not, 
neither  did  he  spin,  and  his  raiment  expressed  his 
plenty. 

Word  of  it  came  North  from  time  to  time,  travelling 
by  The  Society's  wireless.  And  the  word  cankered 
Pangollo's  heart. 

But  easy  success  begets  carelessness,  and  to  hot- 
blooded  youth  a  too-submissive  prey  grows  weari- 
some. So  came  the  night  of  December  20th,  nearly 
a  year  after  the  old  King's  flight,  when  the  new  King, 
supported  by  certain  of  his  vassals,  shot  a  man  in  a 
style  so  bald  that,  even  in  West  Virginia,  his  next 
step  must  be  flight. 

Hotly  though  the  thing  had  been  done,  it  did  no  vio- 
lence to  the  traditions  of  the  stock,  produced  no  crisis, 
no  confusion,  in  Tony's  mind.  Therefore  he  did  not 


110        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

flee  at  random,  but  as  coolly  as  quickly  picked  out 
an  asylum  where  he  knew  that  his  trade  would  thrive. 
And  he  took  with  him  five  of  his  men,  that  he  might 
arrive  well  attended  as  befitted  his  rank  and  purpose. 

On  Christmas  Eve,  1916,  supported  by  Joe  Froio, 
his  cousin,  and  by  Frank  Dini,  Pasquale  Diolatti, 
Rocco  Rizzi,  and  Domenico  Fruscu,  he  made  his  entry 
into  the  town  of  Big  Mine  Run,  at  once  erecting  his 
standard  there. 

Big  Mine  Run,  awed  by  his  state,  his  bearing,  and 
the  tales  told  by  his  men,  hastened  to  do  obeisance 
before  him.  From  the  very  beginning  there  was  no 
resistance  at  all.  On  pay-days  at  the  colliery,  Tony 
collected  from  every  miner's  envelope  that  which  he 
saw  fit.  His  scribe  was  Pasquale  Diolatti,  and  each 
Sunday  Diolatti  obsequiously  sat  before  him  writing 
letters  to  Italians  of  larger  means — shopkeepers  and 
the  like  —  to  indicate  the  royal  pleasure  as  to  their 
assessments  of  tribute  due.  That  tribute  was  obedi- 
ently rendered  in  precisely  the  manner  ordained. 

All  this  simple  machinery  —  so  old  and  familiar 
after  centuries  of  inheritance  and  practice  that  it  runs 
like  a  force  of  nature  —  operated  smoothly  enough 
in  Tony  Froio's  hands.  Practically  without  incident 
it  operated  for  five  whole  weeks.  And  then,  by  the 
marvellous  nicety  of  fate,  the  old  King,  Pangollo  the 
wanderer,  —  Pangollo,  who  might  as  probably  have 
drifted  anywhere  else  on  earth,  —  drifted  like  a  chip 
into  the  vortex  of  a  maelstrom  —  drifted  into  Big 
Mine  Run. 

Big  Mine  Run,  very  surely,  well  knew  Pangollo's 
name.  The  wireless  had  often  been  burdened  with  it, 


BIG  MINE  RUN  111 

joining  it  to  terrors  that  marked  him  as  one  of  The 
Society's  first.  When  now  it  saw  the  man  in  the  flesh, 
it  trembled  before  him,  without  mask  or  shame. 

Pangollo,  the  wanderer,  the  King  in  exile,  starving 
and  thirsty  for  homage,  saw  it  tremble,  and  rejoiced. 
Here  would  he  rest  awhile,  build  up  his  fortunes,  add 
by  unequalled  deeds  to  The  Society's  grim  fame. 
There  was  money  here;  he  would  take  it.  There  were 
men  here;  they  should  serve  him  on  all  fours.  And 
then  —  what  was  this?  Impossible!  Out  from  among 
the  bobbing  rabbit  folk  swung  Tony  —  Tony  Froio, 
shouldering  his  way  to  the  front.  And  Tony  once 
more  looked  him  straight  in  the  eye  as  of  old,  and 
laughed — laughed  from  the  depths  of  a  heart  of  glee. 

Pangollo  would  have  drawn  upon  him  then  and 
there,  but  his  rival's  men  stood  around  him  —  and 
again  that  mysterious  something  withheld  his  hand. 

"Benvenutot  Benvenuto !"  cried  Tony.  "Welcome 
to  you,  comrade.  And  why  have  you  left  la  Bella 
behind?  Was  it  to  find  if  this  place  would  suit  your 
comfort  together?  Why,  this  very  place,  believe  me, 
was  ordained  for  you  before  all  time!  Andiam!  Let 
us  go  and  bring  her,  taking  old  friends  with  us,  to 
make  a,  fiesta  of  the  coming  of  the  Queen!" 

So  together  they  went  to  Mount  Carmel,  where 
Maria  sat  patiently  waiting,  and  together,  by  the 
cross-country  trolley,  they  brought  her  back  to  Big 
Mine  Run.  On  that  journey  the  men  talked  lightly, 
like  old  mates  glad  to  meet.  Giving  and  taking,  they 
dealt  out  the  news  of  the  West  Virginia  hills. 

But  Pangollo's  eyes  were  restive  the  while,  like  eyes 
that  nothing  must  escape.  And  Maria  saw  that  he 


THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

had  rage  and  fear  in  his  heart  and  much  confusion  of 
thought.  Yet  her  own  pulses  were  still,  her  own  eyes 
veiled.  What  did  it  matter?  What  did  all  these  tur- 
moils bring  to  her?  When  her  time  came,  some  one 
would  take  her  where  she  must  be.  Why  should  she 
trouble  to  think? 

Wearily,  she  shifted  the  child  on  her  breast. 

"Let  me  hold  the  bambino.  You  are  tired,  little 
pretty  one." 

Tony  whispered  the  words  into  the  coils  of  her  hair 
as  he  took  her  burden  from  her,  and  his  eyes  said 
more  than  his  tongue. 

Pangollo,  fine  as  a  striking  cobra,  half  rose  from  his 
seat,  hand  at  hip.  But  Tony's  gaze  met  him  squarely, 
alight  with  that  hateful  laugh.  And  the  henchmen's 
resilient  poise  showed  how  ready  they  were  to  spring. 
With  a  curse  in  his  teeth  Pangollo  sank  back. 

That  night  they  all  slept  in  Rosa  Borrusco's  house, 
or  in  neighboring  lodgings.  Next  morning  Pangollo 
rose  late,  as  one  loath  to  begin  the  day.  In  a  black 
humor  he  descended  to  the  common  room,  hanging 
aloof  from  the  company  there,  silent  and  sinister, 
like  a  hovering  hawk  debating  his  plunge. 

After  a  time,  toward  noonday,  he  went  out,  only 
to  fall  into  the  hands  of  Tony,  who,  liberally  beam- 
ing, led  him  back  to  the  padrona's  room.  Pangollo  an- 
swered his  companion's  amenities  with  surly  growls, 
until  the  invitation  to  break  bread.  Then  his  endur- 
ance snapped  short. 

"I'll  have  your  blood  before  this  day  is  done!"  he 
burst  forth,  and  rushed  from  the  room. 

Thus  crudely  the  old  King  blazoned  the  thing, 


BIG  MINE  RUN  113 

exposing  both  the  crisis  and  his  own  weakened  nerve. 
Plainly  enough,  there  could  be  no  space  for  the  two 
in  one  principality.  The  question  was  simple  —  man 
to  man,  the  victory  to  the  ablest,  and  a  field  fair 
enough  for  any  true  pluck.  But  Pangollo's  nerve  had 
begun  to  go. 

The  day  was  Sunday  —  the  day  each  week  set 
aside  for  the  writing  of  letters  giving  notice  of  assess- 
ments due  to  the  King.  Tony  had  work  to  do;  he 
must  dictate  these  letters  to  Diolatti,  his  scribe. 
In  orderly  fashion  he  proceeded  to  finish  the  regular 
task.  Then,  at  his  leisure,  about  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  he  summoned  Joe  Froio,  his  cousin  and 
squire. 

"Go,  bring  me  Domenico  Fruscu,"  said  he;  "I 
have  work  for  you  to  do." 

The  two  men  before  him,  he  outlined  their  task. 

"Joe,  do  you  know  Pangollo  by  sight?  "  he  asked — 
"Pangollo,  who  was  in  Lowe?" 

"No,"  said  Joe;  "he  had  left  Lowe  before  I  went 
there." 

"Domenico,  do  you  know  Pangollo's  face?" 

"Sure,"  answered  Domenico;  "I  knew  him  in 
Lowe." 

"  Good.  Here  is  a  gun  for  each  of  you,  and  a  stiletto 
apiece.  Go  find  your  man  at  once.  Take  him  out  and 
kill  him." 

"I'm  afraid,"  begged  Domenico;  "he  always  car- 
ries his  guns." 

"We  are  afraid,"  begged  Joe. 

"Be  afraid,  then,  of  me"  said  Tony.  "I  shall  walk 
just  behind  you,  ready  to  shoot  if  he  gets  the  drop  on 


114        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

you.  But  if  you  do  not  kill  him,  1  shall  certainly  kill 
both  of  you,  on  the  spot." 

And  they  knew  he  would  prove  every  whit  as  good 
as  his  word. 

Not  once  did  they  ask  why  Pangollo  should  be 
lulled.  That  was  not  their  business,  but  the  business 
of  Tony,  their  King.  Not  once  did  they  question  even 
in  their  own  minds  why  Tony  did  not  do  the  deed 
himself,  if  the  deed  must  be  done.  To  their  way  of 
thinking  it  is  the  prerogative  of  kingship  to  delegate 
to  henchmen  dull  work  like  this  —  work  requiring 
no  skill  or  daring,  work  whose  consequences  may 
mean  flight.  If  one  day  they  also  should  become 
kings,  they  also  would  delegate  such  work,  and  them- 
selves rest  serene  in  the  land,  taking  tribute  peacefully 
while  their  agents  ran  for  their  lives.  So  it  is  in  The 
Society. 

Therefore,  without  argument  or  further  protest, 
Joe  Froio  and  Domenico  Fruscu  sought  out  Pangollo 
and  invited  him  for  a  walk  in  Woodland  Park. 

As  they  moved  down  the  road  from  the  house  of  the 
Padrona  Borrusco,  the  usual  Sunday  afternoon  stroll- 
ers met  or  passed  them,  Italians  all.  And  it  is  signifi- 
cant of  the  temper  and  experience  of  these  people  that 
the  would-be  murderers  felt  it  quite  unnecessary  to 
avoid  their  knowledge  of  the  act. 

With  Pangollo  between  them,  the  two,  chatting 
easily,  moved  on  for  about  a  hundred  yards.  This 
brought  them  into  the  cut  by  which  the  trolley  line 
traverses  the  side  of  a  little  wooded  hill.  Here  Do- 
menico, after  a  glance  over  his  shoulder  that  showed 
him  Tony,  revolver  in  hand,  not  six  paces  behind, 


BIG  MINE  RUN  115 

suddenly  halted,  snatched  out  the  gun  that  had  been 
given  him  —  the  little  nickel  gun  —  and  fired. 

Pangollo,  one  step  ahead,  received  the  charge  in 
his  back.  Wheeling,  he  drew  his  own  revolver,  but  the 
safety  stuck,  and  before  he  could  release  it,  Joe 
Froio's  first  bullet  had  shattered  the  elbow  of  his 
right  arm.  The  impact  spun  him  around,  to  catch 
under  each  shoulder-blade  the  shots  that  ended  his 
life. 

Regardless  of  the  Italians  looking  on,  —  knowing 
that  their  silence  was  sure,  —  the  two  assassins  yet 
feared  the  approach  of  a  trolley  car.  So,  their  task 
fulfilled,  they  dashed  up  the  side  of  the  little  wooded 
hill  and  disappeared. 

Tony  Froio,  satisfied,  without  haste,  dropped  his 
gun  into  his  pocket,  turned  on  his  heel,  and  walked 
back  through  the  town,  placidly  nodding  as  he  passed 
to  Joe  Rizzi,  cobbler  and  friend  of  the  Law,  and  to 
other  witnesses  to  the  act. 

Then  he  extended  his  stroll,  circled,  and  met  his 
squires  in  the  hill  woods. 

"Take  this  six-shooter  of  mine,"  he  commanded, 
"and  go  over  to  Joe  Rizzi  the  cobbler,  in  Frackville. 
That  is  six  miles  away.  He  is  on  the  road  home  now. 
Give  him  my  gun  to  take  care  of,  with  the  two  you 
have  just  used,  and  the  two  stilettos.  You  can  pass 
the  night  with  him.  Then  you  may  go  to  Syracuse. 
Our  people  there  will  look  after  you." 

The  faithful  two  acted  accordingly.  That  night 
they  slept  with  the  friend  of  the  Law  and  gave  him 
the  guardianship  of  the  guns  —  of  the  Colt's  "Police 
Positive"  number  126505,  sold  on  November  17, 


116        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

1915,  by  the  Weyanoke  Coal  &  Coke  Company  to 
Antonio  Froio;  of  the  Smith  &  Wesson  six-shooter 
number  213732,  sold  to  Antonio  Froio  through  Frank 
Dini  in  Mr.  Conner's  store;  and  of  the  little  nickel- 
plated  pistol  too  humble  to  have  a  number,  but  worth 
the  life  of  a  man. 

These  weapons,  to  Tony,  were  the  tools  of  his  trade, 
important.  But  for  the  moment  they  were  better  out 
of  his  hand.  So  he  made  capital  of  the  emergency; 
he  caused  them  to  be  received  by  Joe  Rizzi,  man  of 
property,  with  vested  interests  and  established  trade. 

Joe  Rizzi  thereby  became  accessory  after  the  fact. 
From  the  moment  he  accepted  the  guns,  Tony  would 
have  a  particular  hold  on  him.  He  could  clear  Joe's 
cash-till  to-morrow,  then  clear  it  again,  at  his  pleas- 
ure. Should  Joe  attempt  to  protest,  Tony  would  say, 
quite  simply,  "Very  well,  you  go  to  jail."  It  was  not  a 
picturesque  method,  but  it  would  serve  its  little  turn, 
among  the  rest. 

Joe  the  cobbler,  friend  of  the  Law,  was  afraid  to 
refuse.  He  knew  too  much.  Rage  hi  his  heart,  he  ac- 
cepted the  trust  laid  upon  him. 

Next  morning  his  two  guests  asked  at  a  railway 
station  concerning  trains  to  Syracuse,  and,  as  every 
station,  road,  or  egress  of  any  sort,  within  a  wide 
circle,  was  already  covered  by  the  State  Police,  an- 
other hour  saw  them  prisoners  hi  "C"  Troop  Bar- 
racks. 

At  "C"  Troop  Barracks  the  pair  told  a  plausible 
tale  of  innocence  and  ignorance,  in  every  point  of 
which  they  were  vigorously  supported  by  Joe  the 
cobbler,  friend  of  the  Law.  The  tale  had  been  care- 


BIG  MINE  RUN  117 

fully  made  and  learned  among  the  three.  Not  a  word 
of  it  did  Captain  Wilhelm  nor  Sergeant  Smith  nor 
Private  Buono  believe;  moreover,  they  entertained 
the  gravest  suspicions  as  to  the  guilt  of  the  two  men. 
But  no  evidence  yet  in  hand  justified  holding  them. 
Therefore  they  turned  them  loose. 

Reassured  by  their  release,  and  confident  that  the 
State  officers,  whom  alone  they  feared,  had  no  ink- 
ling of  the  truth,  they  remained  about  the  place  for 
an  interval  that  afforded  ample  opportunity  to  deter- 
mine the  list  of  their  acquaintance  and  that  of  the 
Italian  colony  in  general,  in  Syracuse.  This  oppor- 
tunity "C"  Troop  did  not  neglect. 

But  all  the  work  was  done  quietly  —  so  quietly 
that  it  gave  not  the  shadow  of  a  sign.  Sergeant 
Smith  and  Private  Buono,  day  and  night  drilling  in 
the  depths,  published  no  bulletins  of  their  progress. 

"They  are  blocked!"  thought  Tony,  "and  blocked 
forever.  We  are  perfectly  safe." 

So  he  went  to  Joe  the  cobbler  and  took  back  his 
sinews  of  war  —  his  stilettos  and  his  guns. 

Almost  at  once,  as  though  born  of  their  possession, 
arose  a  new  impulse  to  kill.  On  the  24th  of  February, 
only  three  weeks  and  a  half  after  the  death  of  Pan- 
gollo,  Tony  took  Joe  Froio,  his  cousin,  with  Domenico 
Niccolo,  "the  sheep,"  out  into  the  wooded  park,  and 
there  attempted  their  lives. 

The  motives  here  involved  made  a  drama  in  them- 
selves. Niccolo  was  a  man  of  better  nature,  inclined 
to  industry  and  peace.  Joe  Froio,  being  thrown  into 
his  company,  developed  a  friendship  for  him,  and 
with  that  began  vaguely  to  regret  the  crimes  that 


118        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

stained  his  own  life,  and  to  fear  their  consequences. 
Niccolo,  drawn  to  Maria  by  her  beauty,  her  misery, 
and  their  old  acquaintance,  was  taking  on  a  suitor's 
air.  Maria  was  not  repulsing  him. 

In  all  this,  Tony  the  King  saw,  first,  the  loss  of 
the  prize- woman  —  a  thing  not  to  be  endured;  and, 
second,  the  possible  defection  of  a  henchman,  who 
might  betray  his  master  to  placate  the  State  or  to 
serve  a  new  friend.  So  he  struck  to  kill  both  rival 
and  doubtful  supporter  —  struck  and  failed.  And  to 
fail  in  such  matters  bodes  ill  to  a  Black  Hand  King. 

Once  more  Tony  bundled  his  side-arms  together 
• —  his  three  revolvers  and  his  knife.  Calling  Rocco 
Rizzi,  his  man,  within  the  hour,  he  ordered  him  to 
hide  them  until  such  time  as  he,  the  King,  should  ask 
them  back. 

Rocco,  frightened  and  nervous  but  always  obedient, 
buried  the  weapons  in  the  safest  spot  he  could  think 
of  —  in  the  skirts  of  the  Great  Dump.  But  the  very 
next  day  Tony's  will  veered  again.  He  demanded  his 
armament  back. 

So  Rocco  ran  to  retrieve,  and  behold!  there  was 
no  bone!  The  hole  was  rifled,  the  thing  was  gone. 

Tony,  hovering  near  in  the  concealment  of  wayside 
brush,  fell  into  a  fury  at  the  news.  Rocco  might  go 
back  once  more  —  dig  once  again.  Perhaps  he  had 
mistaken  the  spot.  But  if  he  failed  this  time,  Tony 
would  know  that  he  had  dared  be  false  —  that  he 
had  stolen  the  guns  —  and  Tony  would  kill  him  where 
he  stood. 

Rocco  went  back  —  dug  once  more,  with  hurrying, 
trembling  hands,  and  found  nothing.  Tony,  hidden 


BIG  MINE  RUN  119 

at  a  distance,  watched  him  with  eyes  that  already 
feasted  on  the  blood  spurting  from  his  heart.  And 
then  he  saw  the  descent  of  the  two  Troopers,  heard 
Rocco's  volley  of  protest,  and  knew  that  this  bone- 
burier  was  the  prisoner  of  the  State  Police. 

Now  nothing  remained  but  flight.  Taking  Maria 
with  him,  he  broke  away  for  New  York. 

Such  were  the  facts  that  the  Troopers'  work  re- 
vealed. 

In  the  digest  of  the  case  now  prepared  by  Sergeant 
Smith  for  the  benefit  of  the  District  Attorney,  its 
upbuilding  from  day  to  day  was  set  forth  with  extra- 
ordinary clarity  in  exact  order  of  incident.  The  final 
phrase  read:  — 

"The  confessions  in  the  case  are  in  such  shape  that 
they  can  be  used  on  the  witness  stand  against  all 
three  defendants." 

The  trials  came  on  in  the  September  term  of  court, 
those  of  Joe  Froio  and  Domenico  Fruscu  leading. 
These  two  men  repeated  the  confessions  already  made 
to  the  officers  of  the  State  Police,  and  their  assertions 
were  supported,  point  by  point,  by  the  evidence  of 
many  witnesses. 

In  the  baldest  manner  the  prisoners  related  their 
deed,  underscoring  the  fact  that  they  had  killed 
simply  because  they  were  told  to  kill,  without  heat, 
without  provocation,  without  any  promise  of  reward. 
One  of  them  had  not  even  known  the  victim  by  sight 
until  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  he  shot  him  to  death. 
The  other's  acquaintance  had  been  of  the  slightest. 
They  showed  no  regret,  no  shame,  no  scruple  of  any 
sort. 


120        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Why  should  they?  These  things  were  daily  life  to 
them  —  matters  of  course. 

Their  lawyers  offered  no  hopeful  defense.  No  such 
defense  could  be  offered.  The  horror  was  too  com- 
plete. And  out  of  it  glared  in  all  its  wild  monstrosity 
the  naked  figure  of  the  Black  Hand. 

The  District  Attorney  asked  for  a  verdict  of  mur- 
der in  the  first  degree.  The  opinion  of  the  Judge  was 
plain.  The  feeling  of  the  County  was  intense.  But  the 
jury  returned  from  their  deliberations,  happily  snig- 
gering, as  an  angry  press  reported,  to  render  a  ver- 
dict of  murder  in  the  second  degree. 

Then,  in  the  face  of  the  outraged  Judge,  the  entire 
panel,  walking  over  to  the  two  grinning  prisoners  at 
the  bar,  congratulated  them  warmly  and  shook  their 
hands. 

Immediately  thereafter  came  the  trial  of  Antonio 
Froio. 

Joe,  his  cousin,  and  Domenico  Fruscu,  were  the 
principal  witnesses  of  the  State,  despite  a  vigorous 
effort  on  the  part  of  the  defense  to  keep  them  from 
the  stand. 

"Let  them  be  cautioned,  at  least,"  urged  their  law- 
yers, "that  they  need  give  no  evidence  to  degrade 
or  incriminate  themselves." 

Whereon  even  the  Court  commented  caustically. 

Tony's  statement  was  an  elaborate  attempt  to  foist 
the  whole  burden  of  the  murder  upon  the  shoulders 
of  his  two  associates,  and  a  sweeping  denial  of  any 
personal  knowledge  of  the  crime.  Long  before  he  had 
finished,  Joe  and  Domenico  themselves  fairly  panted 
to  testify,  and  it  was  obvious  that  they  would  willingly 


BIG  MINE  RUN 

further  incriminate  themselves  if  by  so  doing  they 
could  make  heavier  the  punishment  of  their  treacher- 
ous leader. 

One  after  another,  additional  witnesses  were  put  on 
the  stand.  Rarely  or  never  had  that  always  busy 
County  Court  heard  a  case  in  which  was  introduced 
so  much  evidence  of  an  important  character.  The 
testimonies  dovetailed  with  deadly  precision.  The 
structure  of  the  prosecution,  as  built  by  the  State 
Police,  was  superb. 

At  last  Maria  was  brought  in.  As  she  took  her  seat 
within  the  court  enclosure  Tony  was  speaking.  For 
some  moments  she  sat  unheeding,  with  bent  head. 
Then  through  the  haze  of  her  embarrassment  his 
words  began  to  penetrate.  He  was  spinning  the  in- 
tricate falsehood  of  his  defense. 

She  stared  at  him  with  eyes  dilated,  listening 
amazed  to  the  facile  flood.  He  uttered  her  name.  She 
leaned  forward  with  lips  apart,  not  to  lose  a  syllable. 
She  had  confessed  to  many  a  lover,  he  ran  on.  She 
was  a  loose  woman.  Once,  even,  he  had  been  im- 
pelled to  drive  her  out  of  his  house  in  righteous 
wrath. 

Out  of  that  cloud,  mercifully,  it  was  the  Homeric 
jest  that  first  stood  forth  to  the  girl's  mind,  irresistible. 
With  all  simplicity  Maria  threw  back  her  head  and 
laughed  —  turned  deliberately,  as  if  for  understand- 
ing, to  the  Italians  crowding  the  back  of  the  chamber, 
and  laughed  aloud. 

The  People's  case,  now  soon  concluded,  was  per- 
fect in  every  part.  With  so  much  skill,  foresight,  and 
knowledge  of  the  law  had  the  State  Police  knitted  the 


THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

fabric  that  it  proved  literally  impregnable  —  without 
a  flaw. 

But  the  jury,  nevertheless,  and  after  five  hours  of 
deliberation,  once  more  returned  a  verdict  of  murder 
in  the  second  degree. 

In  the  face  of  the  solid  facts,  what  can  explain  it? 
This:  — 

As  at  the  trial  of  Joe  and  Domenico,  as  at  the  trial 
of  any  Black  Hand  case,  the  Court  was  packed  with 
Italians  from  far  and  near  —  friends  of  the  prisoner, 
allies  in  their  trade.  From  New  York  City,  from  Syra- 
cuse, from  many  another  town  in  that  State,  from 
points  farther  afield,  and  from  the  entire  home  re- 
gion, men  had  flocked  to  the  support  of  the  accused, 
whether  from  personal  motives,  dark  and  obscure,  or 
for  The  Society's  prestige.  They  were  known  to  com- 
mand money  in  large  sums.  And  their  mere  presence 
did  not  fail  of  its  calculated  suggestion  and  effect. 

Again,  in  full  sight  of  the  jury,  was  displayed  on 
a  table  a  row  of  knives  and  revolvers,  the  exhibits  in 
the  case.  Rough  gouges  in  hafts  and  barrels  told  the 
number  of  lives  that  each  weapon  had  sped.  And 
through  the  evidence  educed  in  the  trial  pierced  once 
and  again  the  ominous  fact  that  the  group  of  gunmen 
here  in  custody  was  but  the  visible  point  of  a  large  and 
active  class  —  a  class  pervading  wide  areas  and  many 
States,  bound  together  for  mutual  protection  by  an 
extraordinary  loyalty,  served  hand  and  foot,  in  fear 
and  trembling,  by  the  non-criminal  element  of  its  own 
blood,  and  absolutely  steeped  in  murderous  crime. 

In  neither  trial  did  any  juryman  bear  an  Italian 
name.  By  the  gauge  of  name,  most  were  of  German 


BIG  MINE  RUN  123 

extraction  or  of  English  or  Irish  blood.  But  they 
lived  in  or  near  towns  where  the  Italian  population  is 
large.  They  rated  their  own  lives  and  comfort  high. 
And  their  sense  of  civic  responsibility  was  perhaps  of 
the  average  size.  So  ... 

The  Honorable  H.  O.  Bechtel,  President  Judge  of 
the  Court  of  Common  Pleas,  before  whom  these  trials 
were  held,  in  passing  sentence  upon  Antonio  Froio, 
said:  — 

"...  Where  on  earth  there  appears  in  this  tale  any 
sort  of  extenuating  circumstance,  I  cannot  say.  .  .  . 
I  cannot,  as  a  lawyer,  understand  how  any  jury  could 
reach  the  conclusion  that  any  of  these  men  were  not 
guilty  of  first-degree  murder.  They  were  either  guilty 
of  first-degree  murder  or  they  were  not  guilty  at  all. 
.  .  .  These  verdicts  can  only  result  in  the  commission 
of  further  crimes,  in  the  bringing  of  the  administra- 
tors of  justice  into  ridicule  and  contempt.  .  .  .  How- 
ever, the  only  thing  for  the  Court  to  do  is  to  impose 
sentence,  and  I  propose,  in  sentencing  the  prisoner,  to 
give  him  the  full  limit  of  the  law. 

"I  believe  in  my  conscience  that  all  three  of  them 
should  have  been  sent  to  the  chair  instead  of  to  the 
jail.  And  this  man  was  the  brains  of  the  whole  con- 
spiracy. He  is  the  man  who  planned  the  murder,  who 
started  the  machinery  to  carry  out  the  plan,  who  sent 
the  men  to  carry  it  into  execution,  who  went  to  the 
spot  to  see  it  properly  done.  I  sentence  him  to  pay 
the  costs  and  to  undergo  imprisonment  in  the  Eastern 
Penitentiary  for  a  period  of  not  less  than  nineteen  nor 
more  than  twenty  years." 

Antonio  Froio,  so  sure  had  he  been  of  receiving  the 


124        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

penalty  of  death,  so  great  was  his  horror  of  the  elec- 
tric chair,  had  thrice  attempted  to  commit  suicide 
while  in  jail  awaiting  trial.  Now  he  listened  to  the 
Judge's  words  like  one  shaken  out  of  his  wits. 

Even  he  could  not  be  grateful  for  such  a  sentence. 
The  logic  of  the  thing  was  too  preposterous.  If  the 
deed  he  had  done  was  not  murder,  of  malice  pre- 
pense, —  was  not  the  crime  entailing  the  extreme 
penalty,  —  then  surely  no  such  crime  exists,  —  then 
the  whole  matter  was  illusion,  and  he  had  done 
nothing  at  all. 

Why,  then,  were  they  imposing  upon  him  the  pun- 
ishment attached  to  some  other  crime  —  some  crime 
that  he  had  not  committed?  He  felt  suddenly  angered, 
aggrieved,  oppressed. 

"Do  I  have  to  serve  so  long?"  he  petulantly  asked 
the  Court. 

But  later,  swayed  by  the  hopes  and  felicitations  of 
his  friends  and  remembering  the  Pardon  Board,  he 
complained  no  more. 

Joe  and  Domenico,  not  less  surprised  by  similar 
sentences,  displayed  a  cheerful  front.  But  those  who 
observed  Domenico  closely  said  that  whenever  the 
two  were  together  his  eyes  sought  Tony's  with  a  pe- 
culiarly meaning  contempt,  while  Tony  avoided  his 
gaze.  And  they  predicted  a  classic  reckoning  between 
these  two  when  the  Penitentiary  doors  should  open 
to  set  them  free. 

The  County  papers  stormed  over  the  "cowardly 
verdict."  "It  is  a  notice  to  the  Black  Hand  all  over 
the  country,  perhaps  in  Europe  as  well,  that  Schuylkill 
County  has  the  softest  jurors  in  the  world,"  said  one. 


BIG  MINE  RUN  125 

"Doubtless,"  said  another,  "the  young  assassins 
thought  their  heinous  crime  was  commendable,  clever, 
smart,  when  the  jurymen  shook  their  hands  and 
said,  *  God  Bless  You!'..." 

Maria,  propelled  as  ever  by  an  extraneous  fate,  was 
sent  to  new  fields,  and  to  the  welcome  and  shelter  of 
a  true  friend.  The  greatest  care  has  been  taken  that 
no  one  in  any  of  the  scenes  of  her  strange  adventures 
should  know  of  her  whereabouts,  and  as  yet  it  is  be- 
lieved that  the  secret  is  intact. 

But  Maria  herself  has  no  illusions.  Twice  she  has 
written  to  her  trusted  ally,  Sergeant  Smith,  and  twice 
she  has  said,  in  effect:  — 

"Of  course  the  Black  Hand  will  get  me  some  day, 
but  I  pray  it  may  not  be  yet.  I  am  very  happy  here 
with  the  good  new  mamma  you  found  for  me,  and  my 
baby  grows  strong  and  big." 


V 

THE  HUNGRY  ROPE 

CHARLES  WILSON  was  known  to  the  brethren 
as  a  "bad  nigger,"  and  no  one  in  Schuylkill 
County  remembered  a  day  when  the  term  had  not 
described  him.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  had  already 
piled  up  a  lurid  past.  And  when  he  then  added  to  his 
record  a  full-grown  burglary,  Judge  Bechtel,  of  the 
County  Bench,  decided  to  deliver  a  harried  public 
from  his  presence  for  a  considerable  time  to  come. 

So  he  gave  him  six  years. 

As  Wilson  was  led  from  the  courtroom,  after  the 
pronouncing  of  the  sentence,  he  shook  his  fist  in  the 
face  of  the  Judge,  and  swore  that  his  first  business, 
on  emerging  from  prison,  should  be  to  kill  the  Judge, 
the  Sheriff,  and  the  town  officer  who  had  arrested  him. 

Whereupon  His  Honor  summoned  him  back  into 
Court  and  gave  him  three  years  more. 

At  the  time  when  he  indulged  in  this  particular 
demonstration  Wilson  was  in  the  employ  of  a  farmer 
of  Tumbling  Run  Valley,  William  Yeager  by  name. 
Later,  in  the  seclusion  of  the  Eastern  Penitentiary, 
he  bethought  himself  of  Mr.  Yeager  as  a  possible 
avenue  of  escape.  So  he  wrote  several  letters  to  his 
former  employer  asking  for  assistance  —  asking  him 
at  least  to  file  an  application  for  parole. 

Mr.  Yeager  remaining  unmoved,  the  prisoner  then 
wrote  once  more,  merely  to  say  that  the  name  of 


THE  HUNGRY  ROPE  127 

Yeager  was  added  to  the  list  of  the  doomed  —  that 
from  the  day  when  he,  Wilson,  should  regain  his  free- 
dom, by  whatever  means,  the  farmer  might  begin  to 
count  his  life  by  hours  and  minutes. 

All  this  history  was  now  more  than  nine  years  old. 
Judge  Bechtel  had  completely  forgotten  it,  among  the 
crowding  events  of  his  busy  life.  Mr.  Yeager,  in  the 
even  round  of  a  farmer's  seasons,  had  quite  lost  sight 
of  it  long  ago.  But  Charles  Wilson,  "bad  nigger"  and 
time-expired  man,  had  walked  out  of  the  gates  of  the 
Eastern  Penitentiary  with  but  one  clear  purpose  in 
his  incommodious  brain  —  to  get  back  to  Schuylkill 
County  and  make  his  threats  good. 

Now,  on  Saturday,  October  28,  1916,  he  was  mov- 
ing thither  as  fast  as  his  means  allowed. 

At  midday,  as  a  coal-train  pulled  slowly  through 
Port  Clinton  Station  on  the  Philadelphia  &  Reading 
tracks,  a  watchful  officer  of  railroad  police  caught  a 
glimpse  of  something  that  excited  his  zeal.  He  felt 
sure  that  he  had  seen  a  man  scramble  aboard  on  the 
far  side,  and  crawl  toward  the  top  of  a  loaded  car. 

So,  being  an  earnest  officer,  he  ran  as  fast  as  he 
could,  with  some  difficulty  boarded  the  train  himself, 
and  after  a  few  active  moments  of  clutching  and  climb- 
ing, was  about  to  rear  his  head  above  the  slope  of 
glittering  jet  on  which  he  believed  his  appointed  prey 
to  lie. 

He  cautiously  reared  his  head,  taking  care  to  present 
the  muzzle  of  his  revolver  close  beside  it,  and  he  care- 
fully focussed  his  mind  and  his  eyes  for  a  spot  about 
halfway  down  the  car.  Therefore,  to  find  himself 
suddenly  gazing,  at  the  range  of  two  or  three  feet,  no 


128       THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

more,  into  the  eyes  of  a  very  large  negro  who  seemed 
by  no  means  scared,  had  almost  the  effect  of  making 
him  cross-eyed  and  hysterical  at  one  blow. 

The  negro,  in  very  fact,  was  big.  He  would  have 
stood  over  six  feet  tall,  and  he  weighed  some  two  hun- 
dred and  thirty  pounds.  Even  spread  flat  as  he  now 
was,  his  massive  bulk  was  apparent  and  his  great 
shoulders  told  a  story  that  needed  no  proof. 

"Mr.  P'liceman,"  he  said,  with  a  cheerful  grin,  "Ah 
want  yo'  gun."  And  he  shoved  a  gun  of  his  own 
about  five  inches  beyond  his  nose. 

The  railroad  policeman  was  watchful  and  earnest, 
but  he  was  also  rather  small,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
only  discreet  to  accede.  He  handed  up  the  revolver. 

"Now,"  said  the  negro,  reversing  the  muzzle,  "Mr. 
P'liceman,  sah,  you  beat  it!" 

The  policeman  did  the  thing  the  phrase  implied. 
He  fell  off  the  train,  which  had  attained  its  mean 
velocity.  He  sprawled  as  he  fell.  Then  he  picked 
himself  up  and  ran  back  to  Port  Clinton  as  fast  as  his 
two  legs  would  take  him.  There  he  wired  an  alarm 
up  the  road. 

As  the  coal-train  rolled  into  Tamaqua,  seventeen 
miles  or  so  farther  on,  the  contraband  from  his  perch 
perceived  that  a  welcome  awaited  him.  Several  men, 
whom  instinct  told  him  to  avoid,  hovered  expectantly 
on  the  station  platform.  So,  without  waiting  for 
closer  approach,  he  slid  over  the  far  side  of  his  car, 
dropped  to  earth  with  his  negro's  awkward  ease,  and 
took  to  the  underbrush. 

As  he  ran  he  hugged  under  his  arm  something  dark 
that  looked  about  the  size  of  a  big  squash. 


THE  HUNGRY  ROPE  129 

With  a  view-halloo  the  railroad  police  broke  after 
him  —  hunted  him  on  and  away  into  the  deep  woods. 
Sometimes  thereafter  they  caught  half  a  glimpse  of 
him  —  and  fired.  Once  and  again  he  fired  back. 
Twenty-five  cartridges  had  been  wasted  before  dusk 
fell  and  the  pursuers  abandoned  the  chase  as  hope- 
less. 

But  they  abandoned  it  only  for  the  night.  They  were 
the  official  protectors  of  the  railroad,  employed  and 
paid  for  the  performance  of  certain  duties,  of  which 
the  apprehension  of  stealers  of  rides  was  not  the  least. 
They  could  not  accept  a  defeat  so  flagrant.  So  they 
telegraphed  for  more  railway  police,  and  with  the 
coming  of  the  morning  started  out  for  a  general  bush- 
beating  . 

But  ever  their  man  eluded  them.  Again  and  again 
their  clutch  closed  over  his  still  stirring  cover,  only  to 
find  him  "stole  away."  At  last  the  scent  grew  stale 
and  cold. 

And  it  was  after  that,  in  the  second  day,  that 
they  made  known  their  trouble  to  "C"  Troop,  State 
Police. 

Now,  over  in  "C"  Troop  Barracks,  near  Pottsville, 
there  was,  at  the  moment,  great  dearth  of  men. 
Captain,  Lieutenant,  and  almost  all  of  the  command 
were  away  on  special  duty,  leaving  the  First  Sergeant 
to  do  his  best  at  home  with  a  scant  handful. 

But  First  Sergeant  Snyder,  old  veteran  of  the 
Regular  Army,  and  member  of  the  Force  since  the 
Force  was,  is  a  tried  and  proved  man.  First  Sergeant 
Snyder's  best  is  no  child's  play. 

In  the  start  he  gave  his  few  patrols  instructions 


130        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

concerning  "an  unusually  large  negro,"  which  hazy 
phrase  comprised  the  whole  description  afforded  by 
the  railroad  police.  For  no  one  at  this  time  connected 
the  name  of  Charles  Wilson  with  the  hero  of  the 
coal-train.  Charles  Wilson  had  been  nine  years  out 
of  the  mind  of  all  Schuylkill  County,  and  the  coal- 
train  affair  seemed  to  the  public  merely  an  anony- 
mous contribution  to  public  cheer. 

But  as  Tuesday  afternoon  sank  into  the  dusk  of 
evening,  a  streamer  of  news  flew  over  the  country, 
of  a  color  that  blanched  the  earlier  tale  invisible:  A 
murder  had  been  committed.  The  victim  was  one  of 
those  solid  farmers  that  are  SchuylkilTs  special  pride. 
All  jests  and  laughter  were  forgotten  in  the  shock  — 
all  other  concerns  laid  aside. 

This  time  the  State  Police  were  the  first  to  receive 
the  alarm. 

"Daniel  Wagner's  shot.  We're  just  sending  hrnri 
in  to  the  Pottsville  hospital.  I  think  he's  dying.  Oh, 
go  quick!"  a  woman's  voice  gasped  over  the  tele- 
phone. 

First  Sergeant  Snyder  lost  not  a  moment  in  acting 
on  the  report.  Jumping  into  the  Troop  motor,  he 
reached  the  hospital  just  as  the  wounded  man  had 
been  put  to  bed. 

"Shot  through  the  side,"  said  the  doctor.  "A  bad 
case.  Here's  where  we've  got  him"  —  as  he  spoke 
he  opened  a  door  for  the  officer  to  pass.  "He's  very 
weak.  Make  the  most  of  a  few  minutes.  I  can't  let 
him  be  taxed  beyond  that."  And  he  led  the  way  to 
his  patient's  cot. 

Daniel  Wagner  was  a  Pennsylvania  German  of  the 


THE  HUNGRY  ROPE  131 

pure  type  —  stout,  florid,  sturdy,  phlegmatic,  sound. 
He  was  about  thirty-five  years  old  —  a  married  man 
with  a  wife  and  little  children  waiting  for  him  at  home. 
But  his  round  face  was  white  and  sunken  now,  and 
as  he  lay  with  closed  eyes  it  seemed  as  if  his  place  in 
the  world  would  scarcely  know  his  living  presence 
again. 

With  a  heavy  effort  he  lifted  his  mind  through  the 
deeps  of  stupor,  in  answer  to  the  Sergeant's  voice. 

"Who  are  you?" 

"Daniel  — Wagner." 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

Clearly,  but  with  great  labor,  the  wounded  man 
made  his  reply. 

"I'm  shot.  I'm  —  dying,"  he  added,  vague  terror 
in  his  eyes. 

"Who  shot  you?" 

"I  don't  — know." 

"Was  he  black  or  white?" 

"Don't  —  know.  I  only  saw  —  him  —  a  second. 
I  was  —  napping.  As  I  —  waked  up  —  he  —  fired  — 
I"  —  the  weak  voice  trailed  off  into  a  whisper  and 
ceased.  The  lips  fell  apart. 

"Come  away,"  said  the  doctor.  "He  can't  stand 
any  more." 

"Queer  thing,"  he  added,  as  they  walked  off,  "the 
poor  fellow  was  n't  robbed.  We  found  his  bill-fold 
in  his  pocket,  apparently  untouched  —  except  for  the 
bullet.  Thai  had  drilled  right  through  leather,  bills, 
and  all." 

As  the  Sergeant  crossed  the  threshold,  his  quiet 
step  changed  to  a  stride.  As  he  jumped  into  the  Troop 


132        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

car,  he  gave  a  word  to  the  young  recruit  at  the  wheel 
that  lent  the  wheels  wings. 

It  was  only  about  six  miles  from  the  hospital  door 
to  the  farmhouse  whence  had  come  the  first  report  — 
the  house  whence  Wagner  had  just  been  brought.  In 
that  house  the  people  waited  anxiously  to  tell  all  that 
they  knew.  But,  as  Sergeant  Snyder  soon  found,  they 
knew  little  enough. 

It  was  now  a  quarter  to  six  o'clock.  At  about 
twenty  minutes  after  four,  they  said,  they  had  heard 
a  great  pounding  of  hoofs  on  the  road  outside,  and 
had  run  to  the  window  just  in  time  to  see  a  gallop- 
ing team  whirl  into  their  yard  and  stop.  The  driver 
seemed  to  be  kneeling  by  his  seat,  but  before  they 
could  reach  the  spot,  he  had  disappeared  —  fallen 
back  into  his  cart. 

Then  they  recognized  Daniel  Wagner,  their  friend 
and  neighbor,  who  in  the  early  morning  had  driven 
by  on  his  way  to  New  Philadelphia,  a  little  town  some 
miles  beyond,  with  a  load  of  produce  to  sell.  And  they 
saw  that  Daniel  Wagner  was  badly  hurt. 

So  they  lifted  him  down  and  carried  him  into  the 
house,  while  some  one  took  his  wild-eyed,  panting 
team  in  charge. 

Wagner  was  then  quite  clear  of  mind,  they  said,  and 
yet  could  tell  them  practically  nothing  of  what  had 
occurred.  He  had  sold  his  produce,  had  finished  his 
business  in  the  market  town,  and  was  jogging  peace- 
fully home,  his  money  in  his  wallet.  The  afternoon 
was  soft  and  dark.  He  must  have  fallen  asleep  with 
the  reins  in  his  hands  while  his  good  old  farm-team 
guided  themselves  in  their  sober,  leisurely  way. 


THE  HUNGRY  ROPE  133 

Suddenly  something  had  happened.  He  could  not 
say  what,  nor  where.  He  had  only  one  hazy  impres- 
sion in  his  mind  —  the  fragment  of  a  fragment  —  like 
the  memory  of  a  thing  half  seen  in  the  flare  of  a  light- 
ning flash  —  an  impression  of  some  shock  —  some 
stunning  impact  —  of  a  man  standing  in  the  road  — 
no  more. 

Later  —  he  did  not  know  how  much  later  —  he  had 
begun  to  realize  himself  —  to  think.  Then  he  per- 
ceived that  he  had  slid  from  his  seat  to  the  wagon  bot- 
tom —  that  he  had  the  reins  in  his  hands  —  that  the 
team  was  running  away — that  a  farmyard  gate  opened 
just  ahead.  He  turned  the  team  into  the  gateway. 

The  wounded  man  could  tell  no  more.  His  friends, 
seeing  his  growing  weakness,  had  hurried  him  to  the 
hospital.  And  the  moment  he  was  out  of  the  house, 
one  of  the  women  of  the  family  flew  to  the  telephone 
to  warn  the  State  Police.  She  it  was  who  now  told  the 
tale,  trembling  with  excitement,  twisting  her  hands, 
weeping.  The  men  had  not  yet  returned  from  town. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sergeant  Snyder.  "Now  I'll 
have  a  look  outside." 

At  the  farmyard  entrance  he  picked  up  the  trail  of 
the  galloping  team,  thence  with  his  pocket  flashlight 
tracing  it  back  and  back  along  the  road.  Clearly 
enough  it  stood  out  —  the  deep  imprints  of  springing 
hoofs  distinct  among  the  marks  of  common  traffic  — 
for  a  full  quarter-mile.  Then  it  suddenly  stopped. 

"Look!"  said  the  Sergeant  to  the  recruit  who  ac- 
companied him.  "Right  here's  where  they  gave  their 
first  jump.  Here's  where  the  shot  was  fired.  We'll 
search  the  sides  of  the  road." 


134        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Carefully  they  hunted  through  brush,  briar,  and 
the  deep,  dry  tangles  of  tall  dead  weeds  and  grass. 
The  recruit  made  the  first  discovery. 

"Here's  a  bucket,"  he  announced — "an  old  brown 
bucket  —  and  two  doughnuts  hi  it  —  one  with  a  piece 
bitten  out." 

The  Sergeant  stood  at  his  shoulder  before  he  fin- 
ished the  phrase.  "That  bucket  might  have  been  here 
a  month,"  said  the  Sergeant.  "These  doughnuts"  — 
and  he  held  his  flashlight  close  —  "could  be  a  week 
old.  But  as  for  the  bite  —  that's  as  fresh  as  paint. 
Thai  was  done  within  the  last  few  hours." 

Then  again  he  turned  his  light  upon  the  ground. 
"Here's  where  somebody's  been  sitting,  this  after- 
noon —  bent  grass,  broken  stalks  —  See  'em?  And 
what's  this?" 

He  was  stooping  over  an  old  tree-stump,  first  scru- 
tinizing its  surface,  then  feeling  around  it,  then 
twitching  gently  at  some  object  lodged  beneath  its 
spreading  roots.  With  a  last  persuading  tension  he 
drew  it  forth. 

"Hold  the  light,  till  we  look,"  he  commanded, 
straightening  up,  with  the  thing  in  his  hands. 

The  recruit  turned  his  lamp  on  the  Sergeant's  find 
—  a  crumpled  piece  of  white  cotton  cloth.  The  Ser- 
geant carefully  smoothed  it  out.  It  was  a  sort  of  rude 
sack,  and  about  the  size  of  a  meagre  pillow-case.  In 
one  side  four  holes  had  been  cut,  like  the  holes  in  a 
Jack-o'-lantern  face.  The  two  ends  were  raw,  and 
had  been  torn,  not  cut. 

"This  stuff  is  new,"  Sergeant  Snyder  pronounced. 
"It  has  never  been  washed.  Moreover,  it  has  been 


THE  HUNGRY  ROPE  135 

under  that  stump  only  a  matter  of  a  very  few  hours. 
Feel  of  it.  It  has  n't  lost  its  stiffness  yet.  And  see 
these  loam-marks,  where  the  outside  creases  came  — 
how  fresh  and  sharp-edged  they  are  still.  The  man 
that  had  this  mask  bunched  it  up  in  his  hands  and 
rammed  it  under  this  stump  no  longer  ago  than  Daniel 
Wagner's  shooting.  That  rounds  out  his  picture:  — 

"He  was  sitting  here  hidden  in  the  tall  weeds, 
waiting;  and  eating  doughnuts  while  he  waited.  In  his 
pocket  he  had  the  mask.  He  dozed,  maybe,  —  a 
darky  always  will  doze,  you  know,  on  the  slightest 
chance,  —  and  waked  up  with  a  jerk  at  the  sound 
of  a  team  close  on  him.  He  lifts  his  head,  sees  only 
one  man  in  the  wagon,  drops  his  precious,  half-eaten 
doughnut  back  into  the  pail  for  safe-keeping,  pulls 
on  his  mask,  jumps  out,  and  blazes  away  at  poor 
Wagner. 

"But  he  had  forgotten  the  horses.  The  horses  run, 
carrying  Wagner,  Wagner's  purse,  —  if  that  was  what 
was  wanted,  —  and  above  all,  the  evidence  of  the 
crime. 

"So  the  fellow  knows  it  is  only  a  question  of  hours, 
or  less,  when  the  chase  will  be  on.  He  must  make  the 
most  of  the  interval.  He  is  scared  —  badly  scared. 
He  grabs  off  his  mask,  balls  it  up  in  his  two  hands,  and, 
as  he  thinks,  sticks  it  out  of  sight  under  this  old  stump. 

"But  he  does  n't  take  time  to  make  a  good  job  of 
it.  He  knocks  off  a  bit  of  loose  bark  in  his  haste  —  and 
leaves  that  mark,  there,  blazed  on  the  stump,  a  tell- 
tale. Then  he  cuts  and  runs." 

"Who  was  he?"  the  recruit  baldly  bleated. 

"How  should  I  know!"  the  Sergeant  sadly  replied. 


136        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"But  in  the  morning,  my  lad,  you'll  be  out  with  the 
first  crack  of  dawn.  And  you  '11  be  looking  for  that  big 
darky  that  collects  guns." 

Meantime,  other  wheels  had  been  turning — wheels 
set  in  motion  on  the  first  alarm  by  the  Sergeant's  prac- 
tised touch.  "C"  Troop's  resources,  depleted  though 
they  were,  had  all  been  sensitized  to  the  need  of  the 
hour.  And  so  it  was  that  Private  Buono,  prospecting 
with  purpose  around  the  town  of  Pottsville,  made 
a  discovery. 

The  discovery  was  that  one  Charles  Wilson,  colored, 
before  the  day  of  the  State  Police  sentenced  to  nine 
years'  imprisonment  and  therefore  to  them  unknown, 
had  but  just  finished  serving  his  full  term;  that  Wilson 
was  a  very  large  man;  and  that  his  mother  now  lived 
in  Pottsville.  Upon  this,  having  in  view  the  stealer  of 
rides,  the  collector  of  guns,  Private  Buono,  in  civilian 
clothes,  had  betaken  himself  at  once  to  the  house 
indicated. 

There  in  her  kitchen  Private  Buono  sat  talking 
with  the  negress,  the  convict's  mother,  gathering,  as 
he  felt,  some  valuable  points,  when  a  slight  change 
of  expression  seemed  to  flit  across  her  face,  and 
he  thought  she  made  a  signal  to  some  one  behind 
him. 

He  swung  around  to  look.  No  third  person  was  in 
sight.  But,  "Ah  reckon  Ah '11  be  goin'  now,"  called  a 
big,  half -laughing  negro  voice  somewhere  in  the  outer 
hall.  And  the  street  door  slammed. 

With  a  j ump  Private  Buono  followed .  As  he  reached 
the  street  he  saw  the  man  whom  he  believed  to  have 
preceded  him  running  ahead. 


THE  HUNGRY  ROPE  137 

Private  Buono  pursued.  The  runner  turned,  levelled 
his  revolver,  and  fired  a  shot  that  whistled  very  close 
to  the  Trooper's  ear. 

It  was  dark  now  —  after  six  o'clock  —  and  the 
narrow  streets  and  alleys  of  the  quarter  were  pockets 
of  night.  Doubling  in  and  out,  the  fugitive  managed 
after  a  time  to  throw  his  pursuer  off  the  track,  until 
once  more  he  betrayed  himself,  yielding  to  the  temp- 
tation to  fire  again,  from  an  alley  mouth,  as  the 
Trooper  ran  past. 

But,  though  the  range  was  close,  the  aim  failed. 
Private  Buono  wheeled  into  the  alley.  The  negro 
dashed  out  at  the  farther  end,  and,  rapidly  turning 
corners,  again  escaped  from  sight. 

A  swelling  crowd  of  excited  onlookers  now  com- 
plicated the  situation  —  blocked  the  view. 

"There!  There  he  goes!"  yelled  a  voice  on  the  far 
outskirts. 

"There!  "shrieked  others.  "There  he  runs!  There 
below!" 

Following  their  indication  Trooper  Buono  clove  his 
way  through  the  throng  and  plunged  down  the  steep 
incline  —  the  slope  of  the  hill  on  which  the  town  is 
built.  At  the  bottom  the  fugitive  stood  as  if  waiting, 
gun  in  hand.  As  the  officer  neared  he  fired  once  more, 
then  sprang  over  the  fence  and  dived  into  an  old 
cemetery  where,  hidden  and  lost  among  tombs  and 
the  far-extended  planting  about  them,  he  passed  be- 
yond any  one  man's  powers  of  discovery. 

Hot  over  his  failure  Private  Buono  still  had  no 
need  to  stop  to  think.  Help  he  must  have.  Useless  to 
report  to  Barracks,  for,  as  he  well  knew,  not  another 


138        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

man  could  now  be  drawn  from  that  source.  So  he 
must  ask  for  the  town  police. 

His  call  came  in  to  City  Hall  just  as  the  night  men 
filed  in  for  duty.  The  night  men  were  seven. 

"Jump  onto  this  job,  every  last  soul  of  you,"  Chief 
Hoepstine  commanded.  "Take  the  first  motor  you 
find  in  the  street  and  light  out!" 

They  lit  out.  At  the  door  they  found  not  only  a 
motor,  but  a  motor  with  a  driver  ready  and  eager  for 
the  chase.  It  was  only  a  four-passenger  car,  to  be  sure, 
but  with  two  standing  on  either  running-board,  it 
served  as  well  as  a  bus.  Through  the  thickly  crowded 
main  thoroughfare  they  drove  with  care.  But  they 
whipped  into  the  first  available  side-street,  speeding 
apace,  and  when  they  came  to  their  proper  corner, 
had,  in  their  enthusiasm,  attained  such  headway 
that  they  could  not  make  the  turn. 

The  car  skidded,  crashed  into  a  tree.  Its  occupants 
shot  hither  and  yon.  And  the  first  of  the  crowd  that 
rushed  to  the  scene  found  eight  dazed  men,  sitting  or 
lying  about  the  roadbed,  all  somewhat  injured,  two 
badly  hurt. 

For  a  time  the  wholesale  calamity  befallen  the 
guardians  of  the  town  consumed  the  town's  attention. 
But  by  hah*  after  seven  o'clock  the  prior  interest  again 
prevailed,  and  City  Hall  overflowed  with  citizens  of- 
fering themselves  and  their  vehicles  for  the  hunt. 

Trooper  Buono  sped  in  the  first  car.  Railway  police 
officers  cast  themselves  into  those  that  followed.  Dur- 
ing hah*  an  hour  the  town  of  Pottsville  threw  off 
motors  into  the  night  as  a  pin- wheel  throws  off  sparks. 
For  general  belief  now  held  that  the  fugitive  negro 


THE  HUNGRY  ROPE  139 

and  Daniel  Wagner's  assassin  were  one,  and  not  a  man 
in  the  county  could  give  a  thought  to  other  concerns 
while  that  assassin  remained  at  large. 

Flying  in  every  direction,  singly  or  in  pairs,  the  cars 
covered  the  territory  immediately  outlying  the  town. 
Every  house,  barn,  or  saloon  that  conceivably  might 
shelter  the  negro,  was  searched,  every  passer  on  the 
road  was  questioned,  every  patch  of  woods  and  brush 
was  combed,  the  brickyard,  with  all  its  ovens  and 
drying-houses,  was  ransacked.  Wild  rumors  fluttered 
down  out  of  the  skies,  and,  as  each  one  alighted,  a  car 
darted  out  in  whatever  direction  that  rumor  pointed. 

But  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  the 
searchers  foregathered  at  City  Hall,  not  one  had  a 
ray  of  news  to  offer,  and  by  common  consent  the  en- 
tire company  went  home  to  bed. 

At  dawn  —  the  dawn  of  Wednesday,  November  1st 
—  First  Sergeant  Snyder  put  his  every  available  man 
on  the  job,  the  citizens  helping  with  a  will.  All  negro 
and  foreign  settlements  in  every  town  in  the  county 
were  searched,  the  mountains  hunted  over,  and  each 
report  of  the  presence  of  an  unknown  black,  whence- 
ever  it  came,  sifted  to  a  conclusion.  By  means  of 
track-walkers,  switchmen,  station  agents,  and  train- 
hands,  the  two  railroads  had  been  turned  into  man- 
traps on  the  first  alarm.  But  still  another  day  ran 
on  —  another  night  dragged  through  its  hours,  with- 
out result. 

On  Thursday  popular  excitement  and  the  popular 
activity  remained  at  fever  pitch.  North,  east,  and 
south  there  was  mounting  and  riding  over  the  hills. 
South,  east,  and  north,  sped  false  alarms. 


140        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

But  well  on  into  Thursday  afternoon  came  at  last 
a  word  that  rang  with  a  new  sound.  It  rose  from  out 
of  the  west,  and  if  there  yet  remained  an  able-bodied 
man  who  had  not  joined  the  chase,  he  joined  it  now. 

Then  First  Sergeant  Snyder,  wise  in  times  and  sea- 
sons, feeling  that  the  hour  was  nigh,  quietly  laid 
aside  another  and  most  vital  work,  and  took  the 
open  road. 

The  hunt  burst  into  western  Schuylkill  with  a  rush. 
The  trail  grew  hot  and  hotter,  and  yet  again  and 
again  disappointment  dashed  sure  hope.  By  nine 
o'clock  on  this,  the  third  night  of  the  pursuit,  most  of 
the  chase,  tired  out  and  discouraged,  had  once  more 
turned  back  toward  home.  And  then  it  was,  and  not 
till  then,  that  Sergeant  Snyder  got  his  real  news. 

He  was  scouting  about  the  little  town  of  Donaldson 
when  it  came,  borne  by  a  breathless  messenger. 

"They've  caught  him!  Over  in  Tremont!  Shut 
him  up  in  a  swamp!  Some  hunters  beyond  the  creek 
saw  a  light  in  a  cabin  where  nobody  lives.  They  guessed 
it  might  be  the  nigger,  so  they  went  and  told  the  man 
that  owns  the  shack.  He  told  the  Chief  Burgess  and 
everybody  else  he  met.  The  Chief  Burgess  turned  out, 
and  the  whole  town  after  him.  When  they  got  to  the 
cabin  —  cabin's  on  the  creek-bank  —  Burgess  threw 
his  car  headlights  square  on  it.  Then  the  nigger  runs 
out  of  the  door  and  jumps  over  the  bank  —  must  be 
eighteen  feet  high  —  into  the  creek  below.  From 
there  he  cuts  into  the  swamp,  and  now  the  crowd  is 
surrounding  the  swamp,  shooting." 

Sergeant  Snyder  covered  the  distance  between 
Donaldson  and  Tremont  at  a  speed  that  the  emer- 


THE  HUNGRY  ROPE  141 

gency  condoned.  With  his  mind's  eye  he  saw  the  em- 
battled farmers  falling  in  windrows,  dropped  by  the 
cross-fire  of  their  own  guns.  Was  it  in  the  power  of 
engines  to  rush  him  there  in  time? 

As  his  car  dashed  into  the  scene  the  visible  gravity 
of  the  situation  confirmed  his  thought.  Two  hundred 
men  and  more,  armed  with  shotguns  and  rifles  and 
pitchforks,  had  encircled  the  swamp.  The  headlights 
of  several  cars,  placed  at  intervals,  struck  sharp  rays 
into  its  murky  depths,  exaggerating  every  little  flicker 
across  the  shadowy  planes. 

Crack!  went  a  rifle,  off  to  the  left.  The  Sergeant 
almost  winced,  in  anticipation  of  a  cry  of  pain  from 
some  wounded  man.  Even  if  they  did  not  slaughter 
each  other,  they  were  tempting  the  madness  of  their 
quarry.  Whatever  creature  they  held  penned  among 
them  was  a  creature  fighting  for  his  life. 

Now,  First  Sergeant  Walter  Snyder,  like  every 
other  officer  of  the  Force,  sees  his  own  relation  to 
given  crises  purely  from  the  Force's  standpoint; 
which  standpoint,  in  the  matter  of  personal  danger, 
hurt,  and  cost,  even  to  cost  of  life  itself,  affords  no 
view  at  all. 

So,  very  promptly,  he  requested  the  Burgess  to  call 
off  his  men. 

"But  —  we've  come  out  to  get  the  hound!"  pro- 
tested the  Burgess  hotly. 

"You  have  got  him,  Burgess.  You've  held  him. 
Now  I'll  just  go  fetch  him  out  for  you,  that's  all." 

"You  mean  you'll  go  in  there?" 

"As  soon  as  you  draw  off  your  men.  It's  the  only 
thing  to  do." 


142        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"But—" 

"Don't  you  see,  Burgess,  how  nervous  they  are? 
Firing  like  this  .  .  ." 

Crack!  Crack!  Crack!  —  a  little  tempest  of  hys- 
terical shots  broke  loose  even  as  he  spoke. 

"Cross-firing  like  this,  it's  the  Lord's  mercy  they 
have  n't  killed  each  other  already,  filling  the  woods 
with  lead." 

The  Burgess,  moved  against  his  will,  sent  the  mes- 
sage around  the  line.  Growling  resentfully,  the  far- 
mers fell  back. 

"Put  them  way  off — way  off.  Tell  'em  to  close  up 
the  escapes,"  the  Sergeant  advised. 

But  while  he  so  both  advised  and  exacted,  his 
deepest  motive  lay  hid  in  his  own  breast. 

He  watched  them  fall  back,  back,  spreading  far- 
ther apart.  Quickly  then  he  turned  to  the  Trooper 
attending  him :  — 

"See  that  they  stay  there.  Don't  let  them  get  to 
shooting  again.  Head  the  car  for  the  home  road.  Keep 
them  as  far  away  from  it  as  you  can,  and  stand  by.9' 

Then  he  waded  into  the  swamp. 

It  was  a  swamp  of  big  brush  —  of  rhododendrons 
spreading  heavy  screens  of  green,  of  bull-briar  snares, 
of  saplings  massed  in  bulk,  of  tall  trees  bent  and  over- 
lapping, of  tussocks  and  oozy  bog  —  a  perfect  hiding- 
place  —  a  perfect  ambush. 

Using  his  searchlight  the  Sergeant  covered  back 
and  forth,  back  and  forth,  in  that  night-black,  many- 
veiled  morass,  scanning  three  feet  at  a  time  —  offer- 
ing in  his  own  person,  as  he  well  knew,  the  best  of  tar- 
gets for  the  armed  outlaw  hidden  and  at  bay. 


THE  HUNGRY  ROPE  143 

"This  is  my  job.  I  've  got  to  get  him  myself .  It's 
the  only  way,"  he  was  thinking  as  he  raked  the 
darkness  through. 

And  not  once  did  he  waste  a  thought  on  how  easily 
his  difficult  task  could  be  reversed — how  exceedingly 
easily  the  hiding  and  desperate  man  could  take  the 
life  of  his  solitary  pursuer. 

But  still  he  saw  nothing  —  nothing  but  the  shapes 
of  leaf  and  branch  and  moving  shadow  —  heard 
nothing  but  the  suck  and  slide  and  crackle  of  his 
own  steps.  Almost  it  seemed  as  if  the  cover  was 
blank. 

Then  suddenly,  sweeping  under  the  silvery,  sagging 
rails  of  an  old  fence,  his  light  caught  on  something 
that  glittered  —  caught  and  stood  fast  —  on  staring 
eyeballs  in  a  black  face. 

The  Sergeant's  gun  was  up. 

"Coon,  what  are  you  doing  in  there?" 

But  why  did  he  almost  whisper  the  words? 

"Ah's  de  one  you's  lookin'  fer,  please,  sah!" 
strangely  the  negro  whispered  back. 

"Get  up." 

The  negro  arose  —  all  of  six  feet  in  height,  great 
in  bulk.  He  carried  a  revolver  in  his  hand,  hanging  as 
if  he  had  forgotten  it. 

"Give  that  gun  here.   Have  you  got  another?" 

"Yes,  sah,  please.   Here  dey  is,  sah." 

Two  guns  exchanged  hands. 

"Now,"  said  First  Sergeant  Snyder,  and  still  his 
voice  came  below  his  breath,  "I'm  not  going  to  hand- 
cuff you,  because  I  want  you  to  move  before  me.  Just 
as  I  tell  you.  Quietly  and  quick.  If  you  try  to  get 


144        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

away,  I  shall  shoot  you.  But  if  those  people  out  there 
once  get  at  you  — " 

"Yes,  sah!  Ah  know,  sah!"  The  negro's  teeth 
were  rattling,  although  the  sweat  stood  heavy  on  his 
face. 

"All  right,  then.  Start.  Quiet,  remember!"  The 
Sergeant  pointed  in  the  direct  line  back  toward  his 
car. 

With  deliberate  pace,  as  if  still  searching,  he  pushed 
along,  the  negro  before  him  creeping  so  cautiously  that 
his  captor's  footsteps  drowned  such  little  sound  as  he 
made. 

So  proceeding,  they  neared  the  verge  of  the  marsh. 

"Duck!"  whispered  the  Sergeant  suddenly. 

The  ray  of  a  headlight  lay  across  their  path. 

Instantly  the  negro  flattened  himself  on  all  fours, 
to  glide  like  a  dingy  alligator  among  roots  and  under- 
brush, and  through  the  black  bog  water.  Unseen,  he 
slid  into  the  night  beyond. 

Moving  always  like  a  careful  searcher,  the  soldier 
used  the  utmost  tongue  of  cover  —  the  farthest  string 
of  laurel  thicket  extending  toward  the  road.  Then, 
where  no  more  shelter  offered,  he  spoke  to  the  prisoner 
again. 

"See  that  car  with  its  tail-light  turned  this  way? 
We're  after  that.  Steady,  now,  no  matter  what  hap- 
pens. // you  break  you 9re  done" 

"Y-yes,  sah!" 

With  even,  rapid,  unhasty  steps  they  moved 
through  the  open,  in  the  lessened  dark,  and  had  come 
within  sixty  yards  of  the  motor  before  any  one  but  the 
Trooper  standing  by  the  wheel  remarked  then*  pas- 


THE  HUNGRY  ROPE  145 

sage.  Then  some  nearest  townsman  detected  the  two 
figures,  recognized  the  Sergeant's  firm  silhouette. 

"Hi!  Trooper's  got  him!"  he  shouted.  "  Troop- 
er  's  got  him  !  This  way,  boys  !  " 

"Hi  yi!   Hurrah!   Hurrah!   Bring  the  rope!    The  ' 
rope!  The  rope!" 

In  an  instant  the  air  was  filled  with  shouts,  wild 
laughter,  and  the  sound  of  plunging  footsteps,  merg- 
ing into  a  shapeless,  oncoming  roar. 

"Into  the  car  with  you!"  the  Sergeant  snapped. 

The  negro  sprang  to  obey,  crouching  on  the  floor  of 
the  tonneau.  The  Trooper  at  the  wheel  had  pressed 
his  self-starter.  But  the  engine,  it  seemed,  would 
balk.  First  Sergeant  Snyder  stood  quietly  at  the  side 
of  the  car,  service  Colt  in  hand,  when  the  first  man 
reached  him  on  the  run. 

"Give  him  here,  we'll  fix  him!"  he  panted,  and  his 
voice  rasped  hoarse  and  hard. 

"He  is  my  prisoner,"  the  Sergeant  answered  coolly. 
"You  will  not  lay  a  finger  on  him." 

The  man  stopped  short,  an  oath  on  his  lips  — 
turned  and  shouted  to  his  friends. 

"Here's  the  nigger!  Here's  the  nigger  that  killed 
Dan  Wagner.  And  the  Troopers  won't  give  him  up  !  " 

"The  rope!  The  rope!"  the  gathering  crowd 
howled  back,  brandishing  shotguns  and  rifles,  swing- 
ing pitchforks  and  crowbars  and  clubs. 

First  Sergeant  Snyder,  jumping  into  the  tonneau, 
stood  to  face  them.  It  was  the  situation  that  he  had 
foreseen  from  the  first. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "this  negro  is  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  State.  Not  one  of  you  will  molest  him." 


146        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

The  faces  before  him,  in  sharp  gleams  and  distorting 
patches,  half  swallowed  by  the  night,  seemed  almost 
the  faces  of  a  strange  people.  There  were  Slavic  types 
among  them,  Italians,  Huns,  —  miners  come  in  from 
the  coal-fields  roundabout.  But  most  of  them  were 
farmers  —  Pennsylvania  Dutch.  And  the  good  old 
Pennsylvania  Dutch,  in  mind  and  in  practice,  are  a 
law-abiding  folk. 

But  now  these  sturdy  burghers,  in  a  manner  of 
speaking,  had  seen  their  dead.  Daniel  Wagner,  hon- 
est man  and  honest  neighbor,  one  of  themselves,  had 
been  brutally  slain,  in  the  midst  of  their  life  —  of  their 
own  most  sacred  and  honored  peace.  It  was  as  if  the 
outrage  had  befallen  each  man's  very  hearth.  It  as- 
sailed the  balance  of  their  world.  It  was  a  thing  to  be 
stamped  upon — to  be  strangled — and  here,  and  now. 

"  The  rope  !  The  rope ! "  they  howled.  "  The  rope  !  " 

The  Sergeant  raised  his  revolver,  slowly  swinging 
it  back  and  forth  along  the  turbulent  mass. 

"Stop  where  you  are,"  said  he  coolly.  And  his 
voice,  well  tuned  to  be  heard  and  obeyed,  reached 
every  man  before  him  as  clearly  as  if  it  came  from  the 
sky.  "Not  one  move  more.  I  shall  defend  the  prisoner 
of  the  State." 

For  a  moment  dead  silence  succeeded  the  words. 
Then  came  a  broken,  inarticulate  murmur,  hesitating, 
indeterminate  —  vague.  With  it  mingled  a  new  note 
—  the  song  of  the  engine,  spasmodic  at  first,  but  set- 
tling into  a  steady  purr.  Men's  muscles  began  in- 
sensibly to  relax  —  their  eyes  to  become  self-conscious. 
And  the  wheels  of  the  car  turned. 

"  Let  her  go ! "  the  Sergeant  threw  over  his  shoulder. 


"I  SHALL  DEFEND  THE  PRISONERS  OF  THE  STATE' 


THE  HUNGRY  ROPE  147 

The  Trooper  let  her  go,  indeed. 

Another  minute  and  the  lurid  scene  by  the  bog  was 
sinking  into  a  blot  —  a  spark  —  had  vanished  in  the 
engulfing  night. 

Then  the  First  Sergeant  turned  and  looked  down, 
where  a  big,  lumpish  bulk  crouched  shivering  and 
sobbing  at  his  knees.  He  thrust  the  Colt  back  into 
his  holster.  He  took  from  his  pocket  some  small 
thing  that  chinked. 

"Hold  your  hands  up,  Wilson,"  said  he.  "I'll  put 
the  irons  on  you  now." 

"Yes,  sah!  Yes,  sah,  please!" 

Awhile  they  ran  on  in  silence,  the  car  lunging 
heavily  over  heavy  roads.  The  prisoner  sat  by  his 
captor's  side,  as  limp  as  if  every  bone  in  his  great  body 
had  turned  to  paste. 

"Wilson,"  said  the  Sergeant  at  last,  "how  many 
cartridges  have  you  got  on  you?" 

"Reckon  Ah's  got  'bout  forty,  sah!" 

"And  just  what  was  the  reason  you  did  n't  try  to 
shoot  me?" 

"  Good  Lawd ! "  The  feeling  in  the  exclamation  sur- 
passed all  feigning.  "Ah's  jest  a  common  nigger, 
but,  praises  be,  Ah's  no  such  fool  as  that!  Don't 
Ah  know  what  happened  at  Coatesville?  Ain't  Ah 
heard  tell  about  you  gen'lemans  whiles  Ah  was  in  the 
Pen?  Did  n't  Ah  know,  down  there  in  that  bog-hole, 
that  a  State  Trooper  comin'  along  was  my  onlies' 
chance  on  earth  against  —  against  —  the  slow  fire 
and  the  stake?  " 

Again  a  tremor  shook  his  whole  frame  as  the  words 
chattered  through  his  teeth. 


148       THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Why,  the  sight  of  that  uniform  you-all's  got  on 
was  the  blessedest  sight  my  eyes  could  see!  Ah  had 
n't  never  seen  one  befo',  but  the  fellers  in  the  Pen  done 
often  describe  it  to  me  when  they  told  what  you 
State's  men  do.  Me  shoot  a  Trooper  —  and  the  stake- 
fire  so  nigh  lit  under  me  that  Ah  fair  heerd  it  cracklin* 
and  smelled  my  roastin'  meat!  Gawd!  Oh,  Gawd!" 

His  voice  cracked,  negro-fashion,  and  he  broke 
again  into  shivering  tears. 

"But  why,"  the  Sergeant  pursued,  "did  you  shoot 
Daniel  Wagner?" 

The  sobs  stopped  short.  Silence  in  the  tonneau; 
after  which  the  prisoner,  having  reflected,  spoke. 

"I  did  n't  shoot  Dan'el  Wagner." 

"Why  did  you  shoot  Daniel  Wagner?" 

"Ah  ain't  goin'  to  say  nothing,  because  Ah  don't 
want  to  tell  lies." 

And  in  this  attitude  the  black  steadily  persisted 
even  to  the  day  of  his  trial,  while  his  own  simple 
vanity  carried  him  in  the  interval  far  and  farther 
wrong. 

Meantime,  First  Sergeant  Snyder  had  been  quietly 
pursuing  his  own  devices,  building  up  by  faithful  re- 
search the  history  of  Charles  Wilson's  life.  Shortly  it 
stood  on  paper,  systematically  tabulated,  with  due 
indications  of  sources  and  of  corroborative  evidence 
in  form. 

By  this  it  appeared  that  until  his  sixteenth  year 
Wilson  had  gone  to  school,  taking  fairly  kindly  to 
study;  that  he  was  bright,  wrote  an  excellent  hand, 
and  had  finished  a  common  education.  Thence  he 
graduated  so  promptly  and  thoroughly  into  crime 


THE  HUNGRY  ROPE  149 

that  only  a  year,  more  or  less,  had  elapsed  before  he 
entered  the  Penitentiary. 

In  the  Penitentiary  his  record  had  been  thoroughly 
bad,  so  that  no  commutation  of  his  sentence  was  con- 
sidered. Released  at  last,  he  had  moved  quickly  upon 
his  old  hunting-ground,  Schuylkill  County,  his  mind 
filled  with  the  plan  that  he  had  sedulously  nursed 
during  his  long  years  in  prison. 

First,  he  was  going  to  kill  Charles  Yeager,  the  man 
who  had  refused  to  plead  that  he  be  turned  loose  upon 
an  unhappy  countryside.  Then,  reenforced  by  the 
contents  of  Charles  Yeager's  purse,  he  would  complete 
his  programme  at  his  ease. 

At  SchuylkilPs  very  threshold,  Port  Clinton,  he  had 
stopped  to  lay  in  material  for  his  campaign.  He  had 
already  bought  a  revolver  with  a  store  of  cartridges, 
and  the  purchase  had  taken  almost  all  his  means. 
Still,  by  careful  calculation,  the  little  remainder  would 
suffice  to  fulfil  his  purpose  and  to  make  him  happy 
the  while. 

Food  was  his  first  requisite  —  food  enough  to  carry 
him,  if  need  be,  through  an  interval  of  dearth.  In 
those  nine  years  of  prison,  woven  through  his  daily 
and  nightly  dream  of  liberty  and  revenge,  had  run  a 
thread  of  lighter  hue  —  the  thought  of  doughnuts. 
Doughnuts  had  been  his  infant  passion.  Never  in  his 
life  had  he  had  his  fill  of  their  soft  charms.  Could 
he  accomplish  it  now? 

He  walked  into  a  little  thread-needle  shop.  "Ah 
want  a  piece  of  white  cloth,"  said  he. 

"What  kind  of  white  cloth?"  asked  the  woman  be- 
hind the  counter. 


150        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

The  negro  seemed  nonplussed.  —  "Why  —  jest 
white  cloth,  Ah  reckon." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do  with  it?"  pursued  the 
practically  minded  shopkeeper. 

"Why  —  why  —  to  make  —  to  make  —  maybe  a 
pillow-case,  maybe." 

The  woman  took  down  a  bolt  of  pillow-case  cotton, 
tore  off  a  length  sufficient  to  cover  the  sort  of  pillow 
that  she  assumed  the  negro  would  possess,  rolled  it 
up  in  a  bit  of  wrapping-paper,  and  handed  it  to  her 
customer. 

He  thrust  the  parcel  into  his  pocket.  And,  as  he 
turned  to  leave  the  shop,  she  noticed  that  he  was  very 
carefully  studying  and  muttering  over  the  change 
that  she  had  just  laid  in  his  palm. 

"Does  that  darky  think  I've  cheated  him?"  she 
exclaimed  to  herself. 

Coming  to  the  door,  she  watched  him  move  down 
the  street. 

Thus  watching,  she  saw  him  stop  short,  and  stare 
down  an  alleyway  upon  which  opened  the  back  doors 
of  certain  houses  and  shops.  Then  the  negro  turned 
into  the  alley  and  disappeared,  to  emerge  at  once 
carrying  in  his  hand  an  old,  half-wrecked,  brown- 
painted  bucket. 

"He's  picked  that  up  off  the  rubbish-heap.  Must 
be  a  looney!  I'll  get  back  to  my  work,"  concluded 
the  watcher,  and  gave  the  affair  not  a  second  thought 
until  Sergeant  Snyder's  inquiry. 

A  few  moments  later  a  comfortable  baker  of  the 
neighborhood,  sitting  among  his  loaves  and  cakes  in  an 
atmosphere  sweet  to  the  noses  of  his  patrons,  heard 


THE  HUNGRY  ROPE  151 

his  swan-necked  doorbell  tinkle  and  saw  a  negro  enter 
the  shop. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you  to-day?"  asked  the  baker 
urbanely. 

"Doughnuts!"  breathed  the  negro  —  a  very  large 
man  —  and  the  baker  remarked  how  his  great  mouth 
enwrapped  and  fondled  the  word.  "  Is  you-all  got  any 
doughnuts?" 

"  Heaps  of  'em,"  the  baker  responded,  with  sym- 
pathetic unction.  "Hot  and  fresh.  How  many  will 
you  have?" 

The  negro  slapped  a  handful  of  silver  down  upon 
the  counter. 

"You  don't  want  all  that!"  exclaimed  the  baker, 
startled  out  of  his  tradesman's  poise. 

"Put  'em  in  this  here  bucket,  let  me  see,"  the  other 
replied. 

Handful  after  handful,  the  baker  cast  them  in, 
packing  them  evenly  to  save  room.  Now  and  again 
he  looked  at  his  customer,  to  catch  the  sign  "enough." 

But  always  the  negro's  eyes  stared  into  the  filling 
bucket,  while  his  lips  worked  accordeon-wise  in  suc- 
culent delight. 

At  last  the  level  reached  the  bucket's  battered  rim. 

"You've  still  got  thirty-two  cents  left,"  said  the 
baker. 

"Heap  her  up,  high's  she'll  stand.  Then  we'll  tie 
a  piece  of  paper  over  the  top." 

The  thing  was  done.  But  still  some  silver  remained 
unconverted  into  doughnuts. 

"Ah '11  tote  the  rest  in  my  pockets,"  said  the  negro. 
And  so,  with  both  coat-skirts  bulging,  and  with  his 


152        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

precious  bucket  under  his  arm,  he  left  the  shop  penni- 
less, making  off  in  the  direction  of  the  railway  station. 

Then,  in  short  order,  came  his  stolen  ride,  his  ad- 
venture with  the  railroad  policeman,  his  acquisition  of 
a  second  revolver,  and  his  sudden  alarm  at  the  sight  of 
the  reception  committee  awaiting  him  at  Tamaqua 
Station. 

Slipping  off  his  grimy  conveyance  at  this  point,  and 
taking  to  the  woods,  he  had  not  forgotten  to  carry  his 
bucket  with  him.  And  whenever  he  turned  to  fire,  his 
pursuers,  from  their  distance,  had  seen  without  recog- 
nizing the  dark  bulk  under  his  arm. 

Cutting  across  a  country  once  wholly  familiar  to 
him,  and  which  had  changed  in  little  or  nothing  during 
his  nine  years'  absence,  Wilson  soon  emerged  in  the 
village  of  New  Philadelphia.  Here,  entering  a  saloon, 
he  made  talk  with  the  loungers  there,  incidentally 
asking,  as  the  bar-keeper  later  recalled,  whether 
Charles  Yeager  still  did  his  marketing  in  the  little 
town. 

"Sure,"  said  the  bar-keeper;  "he  comes  in  on 
Tuesdays." 

"Got  his  regular  day,  has  he?"  the  other  rejoined. 

"Regular  as  clock-work,  Yeager  is." 

That  night  the  negro  slept  in  the  open.  Next  morn- 
ing, Sunday,  he  knocked  at  the  door  of  a  cottage  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  village,  begging  ten  cents  to  pay 
his  fare  to  Pottsville. 

Later  in  the  day  the  middle-aged  woman  who  had 
answered  his  knock  and  given  the  alms  said  to  her 
husband :  — 

"Joe,  I've  just  remembered  who  that  big  darky 


THE  HUNGRY  ROPE  153 

is  —  him  that  came  begging  with  the  bucket  under  his 
arm.  It 's  that  rascal  Charles  Wilson  that  they  sent  to 
the  Pen  eight  or  nine  years  ago.  I'll  think  my  ten 
cents  well  spent  if  it  takes  him  away  from  here,  that  I 
will!" 

Wilson,  in  very  fact,  took  the  trolley  to  Pottsville, 
but  alighted  at  some  distance  on  the  hither  side  of  the 
town,  climbed  into  the  hills  and  found  a  lair  in  an  old 
abandoned  shed.  Here  he  lay  hidden;  and  here  —  for 
the  Sergeant  found  the  exact  bits  of  cotton  on  the 
ground  —  he  fashioned  his  Jack-o'-lantern  mask, 
knotting  the  cloth  together  and  cutting  the  holes  for 
eyes,  nose,  and  mouth. 

Then,  in  the  dark  of  Tuesday  morning,  once  more 
he  resumed  the  familiar  wood  trails  over  Tuscarora 
Mountain,  toward  the  road  that  Yeager  must  travel 
on  his  way  from  his  farm  to  New  Philadelphia.  In 
the  first  light  of  Tuesday's  dawn  a  matutinal  farmer 
chanced  to  see  a  great  negro  passing  toward  the  New 
Philadelphia  road,  and  the  farmer  noticed  that  the 
negro  carried  in  his  hand  a  brown  pail. 

Knowing  that  the  railroad  police  must  be  on  his 
track,  Wilson  had  no  fancy  to  expose  himself  by  light 
of  day.  Therefore,  having  gained  the  position  on  the 
highroad  that  he  sought,  he  effaced  himself  there  in 
the  tall,  dead  grass,  to  await  the  hour  of  his  revenge. 
And  so,  being  a  true  negro,  no  sooner  was  he  quiet  and 
comfortable  than  he  fell  fast  asleep. 

When  he  awakened,  the  sun  was  high  overhead, 
and  he  knew  that  Yeager,  if  indeed  he  had  gone  to 
market  that  day,  had  passed  him  by. 

But,  "What  goes  up  must  come  down."  So  he 


154        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

lay  easily  dozing  and  waiting  until  after  the  hour  of 
four. 

He  was  putting  a  doughnut  into  his  mouth  when  the 
creak  and  rumble  of  heavy  wheels  caught  his  atten- 
tion. Parting  the  grasses,  peering  stealthily  through, 
he  saw  coming  down  the  road  a  wagon  such  as  every 
farmer  in  the  region  drives.  Nodding  on  the  box,  sat 
Charles  Yeager  —  the  very  image  of  Charles  Yeager 
as  he  had  known  him  years  ago. 

The  negro's  eyes  turned  red.  Snatching  at  his 
pocket,  he  jerked  out  his  mask  and  fitted  it  over  his 
head.  Then,  as  the  wagon  drew  abreast,  he  leaped  to 
the  side  of  the  road,  firing  point-blank  at  the  uncon- 
scious figure  before  him  —  at  the  man,  as  he  believed, 
whose  death  he  had  vowed,  and  whose  purse  should 
now  finance  him. 

But  his  leap  and  his  shot  undid  the  plan.  From 
under  his  very  fingers  the  terrified  horses  swept  his 
plunder  away,  and  sped  the  news  of  his  wickedness. 

And  now  he  must  have  money.  From  the  hue  and 
cry  that  would  soon  be  sharp  on  his  heels,  he  must 
have  means  to  escape,  farther  and  faster  than  his 
legs  could  carry  him.  Where  was  he  to  find  it? 

He  did  not  suspect  that  Charles  Yeager,  with  a 
well-stuffed  wallet  in  his  pocket,  was  jogging  straight 
toward  him,  down  the  New  Philadelphia  road  — 
Charles  Yeager,  who  nine  long  years  ago  had  looked 
as  Daniel  Wagner  looked  to-day.  He  did  not  know 
that  his  revenge  had  failed  utterly  and  that  he  had 
sold  his  right  to  live,  by  the  fruitless  murder  of  a 
stranger. 

And  so,  racking  his  brains  for  help,  he  thought  of 


THE  HUNGRY  ROPE  155 

his  mother,  in  her  cottage  down  in  Pottsville.  She,  of 
course,  would  give  him  all  she  had.  And,  under  the 
cover  of  night,  he  could  visit  her  and  get  away  with- 
out recognition.  Therefore,  abandoning  his  empty 
bucket,  forgetting  even  a  doughnut  in  his  fright,  un- 
consciously leaving  the  unconscious  Yeager  close  be- 
hind him,  he  cut  across  the  mountain  once  more,  and 
descended  into  Pottsville. 

Stealing  up  on  his  mother's  house,  he  crept  through 
her  chamber  window,  finding  his  burglar's  skill  but 
little  rusted  as  he  noiselessly  moved  within.  Voices  in 
the  kitchen.  He  would  listen,  sneaking  near.  And  lo! 
he  himself,  his  bygone  life,  and  certain  unpleasant 
later  details,  made  the  subject  of  the  talk.  It  was  his 
mother,  innocently  gossiping  with  a  detective! 

What  a  joke  on  her!  What  a  joke  on  every  one 
concerned!  Wilson's  racial  bravado,  with  his  racial 
spirit  of  careless  laughter,  did  the  rest.  He  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  speak. 

"Ah  reckon  Ah '11  be  goin'  now,"  he  tossed  at  the 
pair,  and  fled  into  the  outer  night. 

So  much  of  the  story  of  the  negro's  latter  days  at 
large  did  First  Sergeant  Snyder  rapidly  and  exactly 
build  up  from  sound  foundations  of  fact  supported 
by  ample  evidence.  These  facts,  orderly  presented  in 
form  for  immediate  use,  and  this  evidence,  reposed  on 
the  day  of  the  trial  in  the  hands  of  District  Attorney 
Whitehouse,  of  Schuylkill  County. 

Charles  Wilson,  led  into  Court,  walked  with  a 
swaggering  lurch  that  told  its  own  tale  of  restored 
self-confidence. 

As  the  irons  dropped  from  his  wrists  he  turned 


156        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

deliberately  to  bestow  on  Judge-President  Bechtel, 
whose  life  he  had  promised  to  take,  a  look  so  boldly 
evil  that  a  State  Trooper  quietly  moved  to  the  front 
of  the  Judge's  seat. 

Then,  as  the  trial  opened,  the  vanity  of  the  prisoner 
reached  its  height.  Having  pleaded  "Not  Guilty"  on 
all  counts,  he  now  proceeded  to  discard  his  able  coun- 
sel and  to  conduct  his  own  defense. 

But  even  without  that  folly,  his  case  was  hopeless. 
First  Sergeant  Snyder's  structure,  built  on  scientific 
legal  lines,  in  the  manner  of  the  State  Police,  stood 
like  rock.  Beginning  with  the  revolver  taken  from 
the  railway  officer  on  the  top  of  the  coal-car  at  Port 
Clinton  and  recovered  by  First  Sergeant  Snyder  from 
the  negro  in  the  swamp,  the  series  of  exhibits  was  com- 
plete. The  roster  of  witnesses  showed  as  handsomely. 

It  was  therefore  due  solely  to  an  extraneous  circum- 
stance that  the  prisoner  escaped  with  his  life.  Daniel 
Wagner,  after  days  in  the  very  doorway  of  the  other 
world,  was  getting  well  —  was  now  safe.  Conse- 
quently Wilson's  sentence,  which  must  otherwise 
have  been  the  electric  chair,  became  twelve  years  in 
prison. 

After  those  twelve  years,  what? 


VI 

ISRAEL  DRAKE 

TSRAEL  DRAKE  was  a  bandit  for  simple  love  of 
•*•  the  thing.  To  hunt  for  another  reason  would  be  a 
waste  of  time.  The  blood  in  his  veins  was  pure  Eng- 
lish, unmixed  since  long  ago.  His  environment  was 
that  of  his  neighbors.  His  habitat  was  the  noble  hills. 
But  Israel  Drake  was  a  bandit,  just  as  his  neighbors 
were  farmers  —  just  as  a  hawk  is  a  hawk  while  its 
neighbors  are  barnyard  fowls. 

Israel  Drake  was  swarthy-visaged,  high  of  cheek- 
bone, with  large,  dark,  deep-set  eyes,  and  a  thin- 
lipped  mouth  covered  by  a  long  and  drooping  black 
mustache.  Barefooted,  he  stood  six  feet  two  inches 
tall.  Lean  as  a  panther,  and  as  supple,  he  could  clear 
a  five-foot  rail  fence  without  the  aid  of  his  hand.  He 
ran  like  a  deer.  As  a  woodsman  the  very  deer  could 
have  taught  him  little.  With  rifle  and  revolver  he  was 
an  expert  shot,  and  the  weapons  he  used  were  the 
truest  and  best. 

All  the  hill-people  of  Cumberland  County  dreaded 
him.  All  the  scattered  valley-folk  spoke  softly  at  his 
name.  And  the  jest  and  joy  of  Israel's  care-free  life 
was  to  make  them  skip  and  shiver  and  dance  to  the 
tune  of  their  trepidations. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  leader  of  a  gang,  out- 
laws every  one.  But  his  own  strong  aura  eclipsed  the 
rest,  and  he  glared  alone,  in  the  thought  of  his  world, 
endued  with  terrors  of  diverse  origin. 


158        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

His  genius  kept  him  fully  aware  of  the  value  of 
this  preeminence,  and  it  lay  in  his  wisdom  and  pleas- 
ure to  fan  the  flame  of  his  own  repute.  In  this  it 
amused  him  to  seek  the  picturesque  —  the  unex- 
pected. With  an  imagination  fed  by  primeval  humor 
and  checked  by  no  outward  circumstance  of  law,  he 
achieved  a  ready  facility.  Once,  for  example,  while 
trundling  through  his  town  of  Shippensburg  on  the 
rear  platform  of  a  freight  train,  he  chanced  to  spy  a 
Borough  Constable  crossing  a  bridge  near  the  track. 

"Happy  thought!  Let's  touch  the  good  soul  up. 
He's  getting  stodgy." 

Israel  drew  a  revolver  and  fired,  neatly  nicking  the 
Constable's  hat.  Then  with  a  mountaineer's  hoot, 
he  gayly  proclaimed  his  identity. 

Again,  and  many  times,  he  would  send  into  this  or 
that  town  or  settlement  a  message  addressed  to  the 
Constable  or  Chief  of  Police:  — 

"I  am  coming  down  this  afternoon.  Get  away  out 
of  town.  Don't  let  me  find  you  there." 

Obediently  they  went  away.  And  Israel,  strolling 
the  streets  that  afternoon  just  as  he  had  promised  to 
do,  would  enter  shop  after  shop,  look  over  the  stock 
at  his  leisure,  and,  with  perfect  good-humor,  pick  out 
out  whatever  pleased  him,  regardless  of  cost. 

"I  think  I'll  take  this  here  article,"  he  would  say 
to  the  trembling  store-keeper,  affably  pocketing  his 
choice. 

"Help  yourself,  Mr.  Drake!  Help  yourself,  sir! 
Glad  we  are  able  to  please  you  to-day." 

Which  was  indeed  the  truth.  And  many  of  them 
there  were  who  would  have  hastened  to  curry  favor 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  159 

with  their  persecutor  by  whispering  in  his  ear  a  word 
of  warning  had  they  known  of  any  impending  at- 
tempt against  him  by  the  agents  of  peace. 

Such  was  their  estimate  of  the  relative  strength  of 
Israel  Drake  and  of  the  law  forces  of  the  Sovereign 
State  of  Pennsylvania. 

In  the  earlier  times  they  had  tried  to  arrest  him. 
Once  the  attempt  succeeded  and  Israel  went  to  the 
Penitentiary  for  a  term.  But  he  emerged  a  better  and 
wilier  bandit  than  before,  to  embark  upon  a  career 
that  made  his  former  life  seem  tame.  Sheriffs  and 
Constables  now  proved  powerless  against  him,  what- 
ever they  essayed. 

Then  came  a  grand,  determined  effort  when  the 
Sheriff,  supported  by  fifteen  deputies,  all  heavily 
armed,  actually  surrounded  Drake's  house.  But  the 
master-outlaw,  alone  and  at  ease  at  an  upper  window, 
his  Winchester  repeating-rifle  in  his  hand  and  a  smile 
of  still  content  on  his  face,  coolly  stood  the  whole 
army  off  until,  weary  of  empty  danger,  it  gave  up  the 
siege  and  went  home. 

This  disastrous  expedition  ended  the  attempts  of 
the  local  authorities  to  capture  Israel  Drake.  Thence- 
forth he  pursued  his  natural  course  without  pretense 
of  let  or  hindrance.  At  the  time  when  this  story  be- 
gins, no  fewer  than  fourteen  warrants  were  out  for 
his  apprehension,  issued  on  charges  ranging  from 
burglary  and  highway  robbery  through  a  long  list 
of  felonies.  But  the  warrants,  slowly  accumulating, 
lay  in  the  bottom  of  official  drawers,  apprehending 
nothing  but  dust.  No  one  undertook  to  serve  them. 
Life  was  too  sweet  —  too  short. 


160        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Then  came  a  turn  of  fate.  Israel  chanced  to  be- 
think himself  of  a  certain  aged  farmer  living  with  his 
old  wife  near  a  spot  called  Lee's  Cross-Road.  The 
two  dwelt  by  themselves,  without  companions  on 
their  farm,  and  without  neighbors.  And  they  were 
reputed  to  have  money. 

The  money  might  not  be  much  —  might  be  ex- 
ceedingly little.  But,  even  so,  Israel  could  use  it,  and 
in  any  event  there  would  be  the  fun  of  the  trick.  So 
Israel  summoned  one  Carey  Morrison,  a  gifted  mate 
and  subordinate,  with  whom  he  proceeded  to  act. 

At  dead  of  night  the  two  broke  into  the  farmhouse 
—  crept  into  the  chamber  of  the  old  pair  —  crept 
softly,  softly,  lest  the  farmer  might  keep  a  shotgun 
by  his  side.  Sneaking  to  the  foot  of  the  bed,  Israel 
suddenly  flashed  his  lantern  full  upon  the  pillows  — 
upon  the  two  pale,  deep-seamed  faces  crowned  with 
silver  hair. 

The  woman  sat  up  with  a  piercing  scream.  The 
farmer  clutched  at  his  gun.  But  Israel,  bringing  the 
glinting  barrel  of  his  revolver  into  the  lantern's  shaft 
of  light,  ordered  both  to  lie  down.  Carey,  slouching 
at  hand,  awaited  orders. 

"Where  is  your  money?"  demanded  Israel,  indi- 
cating the  farmer  by  the  point  of  his  gun. 

"I  have  no  money,  you  coward!" 

"  It 's  no  use  your  lying  to  me.  Where 's  the  money  ?  " 

"I  have  no  money,  I  tell  you." 

"Carey,"  observed  Israel,  "hunt  a  candle." 

While  Carey  looked  for  the  candle,  Israel  surveyed 
his  victims  with  a  cheerful,  anticipatory  grin. 

The  candle  came;  was  lighted. 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  161 

"Carey,"  Israel  spoke  again,  "you  pin  the  old 
woman  down.  Pull  the  quilt  off.  Clamp  her  feet  to- 
gether. So!" 

Then  he  thrust  the  candle-flame  against  the  soles 
of  those  gnarled  old  feet  —  thrust  it  close,  while  the 
flame  bent  upward,  and  the  melting  tallow  poured 
upon  the  bed. 

The  woman  screamed  again,  this  time  in  pain.  The 
farmer  half  rose,  with  a  quivering  cry  of  rage,  but 
Israel's  gun  stared  him  between  the  eyes.  The  woman 
screamed  without  interval.  There  was  a  smell  of 
burning  flesh. 

"Now  we'll  change  about,"  remarked  Israel,  beam- 
ing. "I'll  hold  the  old  feller.  You  take  the  candle, 
Carey.  You  don't  reely  need  your  gun — now,  do  ye, 
boy!" 

And  so  they  began  afresh. 

It  was  not  a  game  to  last  long.  Before  dawn  the 
two  were  back  in  their  own  place,  bearing  the  little 
all  of  value  that  the  rifled  house  had  contained. 

When  the  news  of  the  matter  spread  abroad,  it 
seemed,  somehow,  just  a  straw  too  much.  The  Dis- 
trict Attorney  of  the  County  of  Cumberland  blazed 
into  white  heat.  But  he  was  powerless,  he  found.  Not 
an  officer  within  his  entire  jurisdiction  expressed  any 
willingness  even  to  attempt  an  arrest. 

"Then  we  shall  see,"  said  District  Attorney  Rhey, 
"what  the  State  will  do  for  us,  since  we  cannot  help 
ourselves!"  And  he  rushed  off  a  telegram,  confirmed 
by  post,  to  the  Superintendent  of  the  Department 
of  State  Police. 

The  Superintendent  of  the  Department  of  State 


162        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Police  promptly  referred  the  matter  to  the  Captain 
of  "C"  Troop,  with  orders  to  act.  For  Cumberland 
County,  being  within  the  southeastern  quarter  of 
the  Commonwealth,  lies  under  "C"  Troop's  special 
care. 

It  was  Adams,  in  those  days,  who  held  that  com- 
mand — Lynn  G.  Adams,  now  Captain  of  "  A  "  Troop, 
although  for  the  duration  of  the  war  serving  in  the 
regular  army,  even  as  his  fathers  before  him  have 
served  in  our  every  war,  including  that  which  put  the 
country  on  the  map.  Truer  soldier,  finer  officer,  braver 
or  straighter  or  surer  dealer  with  men  and  things  need 
not  be  sought.  His  victories  leave  no  needless  scar  be- 
hind, and  his  command  would  die  by  niches  rather 
than  fail  him  anywhere. 

The  Captain  of  "C"  Troop,  then,  choosing  with 
judgment,  picked  his  man — picked  Trooper  Edward 
Hallisey,  a  Boston  Irishman,  square  of  jaw,  shrewd  of 
eye,  quick  of  wit,  strong  of  wind  and  limb.  And  he 
ordered  Private  Hallisey  to  proceed  at  once  to  Car- 
lisle, county  seat  of  Cumberland,  and  report  to  the 
District  Attorney  for  service  toward  effecting  the  ap- 
prehension of  Israel  Drake. 

Three  days  later  —  it  was  the  28th  of  September, 
to  be  exact  —  Private  Edward  Hallisey  sent  in  his 
report  to  his  Troop  Commander.  He  had  made  all 
necessary  observations,  he  said,  and  was  ready  to 
arrest  the  criminal.  In  this  he  would  like  to  have 
the  assistance  of  two  Troopers,  who  should  join  him 
at  Carlisle. 

The  report  came  in  the  morning  mail.  First  Ser- 
geant Price  detailed  two  men  from  the  Barracks  re- 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  163 

serve.  They  were  Privates  H.  K.  Merryfield  and  Har- 
vey J.  Smith.  Their  orders  were  simply  to  proceed 
at  once,  in  civilian  clothes,  to  Carlisle,  where  they 
would  meet  Private  Hallisey  and  assist  him  in  effect- 
ing the  arrest  of  Israel  Drake. 

Privates  Merryfield  and  Smith,  carrying  in  addi- 
tion to  their  service  revolvers  the  44-calibre  Spring- 
field carbine  which  is  the  Force's  heavy  weapon,  left 
by  the  next  train. 

On  the  Carlisle  station  platform,  as  the  two  Troop- 
ers debarked,  some  hundred  persons  were  gathered 
in  pursuance  of  various  and  centrifugal  designs.  But 
one  impulse  they  appeared  unanimously  to  share  — 
the  impulse  to  give  as  wide  a  berth  as  possible  to  a 
peculiarly  horrible  tramp. 

Why  should  a  being  like  that  intrude  himself  upon 
a  passenger  platform  in  a  respectable  county  town? 
Not  to  board  a  coach,  surely,  for  such  as  he  pay  no 
fares.  To  spy  out  the  land?  To  steal  luggage?  Or 
simply  to  make  himself  hateful  to  decent  folk? 

He  carried  his  head  with  a  hangdog  lurch  —  his 
heavy  jaw  was  rough  with  stubble  beard.  His  coat 
and  trousers  fluttered  rags  and  his  toes  stuck  out  of 
his  boots.  Women  snatched  back  their  skirts  as  he 
slouched  near,  and  men  muttered  and  scowled  at 
him  for  a  contaminating  beast. 

Merryfield  and  Smith,  drifting  near  this  scum  of 
the  earth,  caught  the  words  "Four-thirty  train"  and 
the  name  of  a  station. 

"Right,"  murmured  Merryfield. 

Then  he  went  and  bought  tickets. 

In  the  shelter  of  an  ancient,  grimy  day-coach,  the 


164        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

scum  muttered  again,  as  Smith  brushed  past  him  in 
the  aisle. 

"Charles  Stover's  farm,"  said  he. 

"M'm,"  said  Smith. 

At  a  scrap  of  a  station,  in  the  foothills  of  ascend- 
ing heights  the  tramp  and  the  Troopers  separately 
detrained.  In  the  early  evening  all  three  strayed  to- 
gether once  more  in  the  shadow  of  the  lilacs  by 
Charles  Stover's  gate. 

Over  the  supper-table  Hallisey  gave  the  news. 
"Drake  is  somewhere  on  the  mountain  to-night," 
said  he.  "His  cabin  is  way  up  high,  on  a  ridge  called 
Huckleberry  Patch.  He  is  practically  sure  to  go  home 
in  the  course  of  the  evening.  Then  is  our  chance. 
First,  of  course,  you  fellows  will  change  your  clothes. 
I've  got  some  old  things  ready  for  you." 

Farmer  Stover,  like  every  other  denizen  of  the  rural 
county,  had  lived  for  years  in  terror  and  hatred  of 
Israel  Drake.  Willingly  he  had  aided  Hallisey  to  the 
full  extent  of  his  power.  He  had  told  all  that  he  knew 
of  the  bandit's  habits  and  mates.  He  had  indicated 
the  mountain  trails  and  he  had  given  the  Trooper 
such  little  shelter  and  food  as  the  latter  had  stopped 
to  take  during  his  rapid  work  of  investigation.  But 
now  he  was  asked  to  perform  a  service  that  he  would 
gladly  have  refused;  he  was  asked  to  hitch  up  a  horse 
and  wagon  and  to  drive  the  three  Troopers  to  the 
very  vicinity  of  Israel  Drake's  house. 

"Oh,  come  on,  Mr.  Stover,"  they  urged.  "You  're  a 
public-spirited  man,  as  you've  shown.  Do  it  for  your 
neighbors'  sake  if  not  for  your  own.  You  want  the 
county  rid  of  this  pest." 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  165 

Very  reluctantly  the  farmer  began  the  trip.  With 
every  turn  of  the  ever-mounting  forest  road  his 
reluctance  grew.  Grisly  memories,  grisly  pictures, 
flooded  his  mind.  It  was  night,  and  the  trees  in  the 
darkness  whispered  like  evil  men.  The  bushes  huddled 
like  crouching  figures.  And  what  was  it,  moving 
stealthily  over  there,  that  crackled  twigs?  At  last  he 
could  bear  it  no  more. 

"  Here 's  where  /  turn  'round,"  he  muttered  hoarsely. 
"If  you  fellers  are  going  farther  you'll  go  alone.  I 
got  a  use  for  my  life!" 

"All  right,  then,"  said  Hallisey.  "You've  done 
well  by  us  already.  Good-night." 

It  was  a  fine  moonlight  night  and  Hallisey  now 
knew  those  woods  as  well  as  did  his  late  host.  He  led 
his  two  comrades  up  another  stiff  mile  of  steady  climb- 
ing. Then  he  struck  off,  by  an  almost  invisible  trail, 
into  the  dense  timber.  Silently  the  three  men  moved, 
threading  the  fragrant,  silver-flecked  blackness  with 
practised  woodsmen's  skill.  At  last  their  file-leader 
stopped  and  beckoned  his  mates. 

Over  his  shoulder  the  two  studied  the  scene  before 
them:  A  clearing  chopped  out  of  the  dense  tall  timber. 
In  the  midst  of  the  clearing  a  log  cabin,  a  story  and 
a  half  high.  On  two  sides  of  the  cabin  a  straggling 
orchard  of  peach  and  apple  trees.  In  the  cabin  window 
a  dim  light. 

It  was  then  about  eleven  o'clock.  The  three  Troop- 
ers, effacing  themselves  in  the  shadows,  laid  final  plans. 

The  cabin  had  two  rooms  on  the  top  floor  and  one 
below,  said  Hallisey,  beneath  his  breath.  The  first- 
floor  room  had  a  door  and  two  windows  on  the  north, 


166        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

and  the  same  on  the  south,  just  opposite.  Under  the 
west  end  was  a  cellar,  with  an  outside  door.  Before  the 
main  door  to  the  north  was  a  little  porch.  .This,  by 
day,  commanded  the  sweep  of  the  mountain-side;  and 
here,  when  Drake  was  "hiding  out"  in  some  neigh- 
boring eyrie,  expecting  pursuit,  his  wife  was  wont  to 
signal  him  concerning  the  movements  of  intruders. 

Her  code  was  written  in  dish-water.  A  panful 
thrown  to  the  east  meant  danger  in  the  west,  and  vice 
versa ;  this  Hallisey  himself  had  seen  and  now  recalled 
in  case  of  need. 

Up  to  the  present  moment  each  officer  had  carried 
his  carbine,  taken  apart  and  wrapped  in  a  bundle, 
to  avoid  the  remark  of  chance  observers  by  the  way. 
Now  each  put  his  weapon  together,  ready  for  use. 
They  compared  their  watches,  setting  them  to  the 
second.  They  discarded  their  coats  and  hats. 

The  moon  was  flooding  the  clearing  with  high, 
pale  light,  adding  greatly  to  the  difficulty  of  their 
task.  Accordingly,  they  plotted  carefully.  Each 
Trooper  took  a  door  —  Hallisey  that  to  the  north, 
Merryfield  that  to  the  south,  Smith  that  of  the  cellar. 
It  was  agreed  that  each  should  creep  to  a  point  op- 
posite the  door  on  which  he  was  to  advance,  ten 
minutes  being  allowed  for  all  to  reach  their  initial 
positions;  that  at  exactly  five  minutes  to  midnight 
the  advance  should  be  started,  slowly,  through  the 
tall  grass  of  the  clearing  toward  the  cabin;  that  in 
case  of  any  unusual  noise  or  alarm,  each  man  should 
lie  low  for  exactly  five  minutes  before  resuming  this 
advance;  and  that  from  a  point  fifty  yards  from  the 
cabin  a  rush  should  be  made  upon  the  doors. 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  167 

According  to  the  request  of  the  District  Attorney, 
Drake  was  to  be  taken  "dead  or  alive,"  but  according 
to  an  adamantine  principle  of  the  Force,  he  must  be 
taken  not  only  alive,  but  unscathed  if  that  were  hu- 
manly possible.  This  meant  that  he  must  not  be  given 
an  opportunity  to  run  and  so  render  shooting  neces- 
sary. If,  however,  he  should  break  away,  his  chance 
of  escape  would  be  small,  as  each  Trooper  was  a  dead 
shot  with  the  weapons  he  was  carrying. 

The  scheme  concerted,  the  three  officers  separated, 
heading  apart  to  their  several  starting-points.  At 
five  minutes  before  midnight,  to  the  tick  of  their  syn- 
chronized watches,  each  began  to  glide  through  the 
tall  grass.  But  it  was  late  September.  The  grass 
was  dry.  Old  briar-vines  dragged  at  brittle  stalks. 
Shimmering  whispers  of  withered  leaves  echoed  to 
the  smallest  touch;  and  when  the  men  were  still  some 
two  hundred  yards  from  the  cabin  the  sharp  ears  of 
a  dog  caught  the  rumor  of  all  these  tiny  sounds,  — 
and  the  dog  barked. 

Every  man  stopped  short  —  moved  not  a  finger 
again  till  five  minutes  had  passed.  Then  once  more 
each  began  to  creep  —  reached  the  fifty-yard  point 
—  stood  up,  with  a  long  breath,  and  dashed  for  his 
door. 

At  one  and  the  same  moment,  practically,  the  three 
stood  in  the  cabin,  viewing  a  scene  of  domestic  peace. 
A  short,  square,  swarthy  woman,  black  of  eye,  high 
of  cheek-bone,  stood  by  the  stove  calmly  stirring  a 
pot.  On  the  table  beside  her,  on  the  floor  around  her, 
clustered  many  jars  of  peaches  —  jars  freshly  filled, 
steaming  hot,  awaiting  their  tops.  In  a  corner  three 


168        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

little  children,  huddled  together  on  a  low  bench, 
stared  at  the  strangers  with  sleepy  eyes.  Three  chairs; 
a  cupboard  with  dishes;  bunches  of  corn  hanging  from 
the  rafters  by  their  husks;  festoons  of  onions;  tassels 
of  dried  herbs  —  all  this  made  visible  by  the  dull  light 
of  a  small  kerosene  lamp  whose  dirty  chimney  was 
streaked  with  smoke.  All  this  and  nothing  more. 

Two  of  the  men,  jumping  for  the  stairs,  searched 
the  upper  half-story  thoroughly,  but  without  profit. 

"Mrs.  Drake,"  said  Hallisey,  as  they  returned, 
"we  are  officers  of  the  State  Police,  come  to  arrest 
your  husband.  Where  is  he?" 

In  silence,  hi  utter  calm  the  woman  still  stirred  her 
pot,  not  missing  the  rhythm  of  a  stroke. 

"The  dog  warned  them.  He's  just  got  away,"  said 
each  officer  to  himself.  "She's  too  calm." 

She  scooped  up  a  spoonful  of  fruit,  peered  at  it 
critically,  splashed  it  back  into  the  bubbling  pot. 
From  her  manner  it  appeared  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world  to  be  canning  peaches  at  midnight  on 
the  top  of  South  Mountain  in  the  presence  of  officers 
of  the  State  Police. 

"My  husband's  gone  to  Baltimore,"  she  vouch- 
safed at  her  easy  leisure. 

"Let's  have  a  look  in  the  cellar,"  said  Merryfield, 
and  dropped  down  the  cellar  stairs  with  Hallisey  at 
his  heels.  Together  they  ransacked  the  little  cave 
to  a  conclusion.  During  the  process,  Merryfield  con- 
ceived an  idea. 

"Hallisey,"  he  murmured,  "what  would  you  think 
of  my  staying  down  here,  while  you  and  Smith  go  off 
talking  as  though  we  were  all  together?  She  might  say 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  169 

something  to  the  children,  when  she  believes  we're 
gone,  and  I  could  hear  every  word  through  that  thin 
floor." 

"We'll  do  it!"  Hallisey  answered,  beneath  his 
voice.  Then,  shouting:  — 

"Come  on,  Smith!  Let's  get  away  from  this;  no 
use  wasting  time  here!" 

And  in  another  moment  Smith  and  Hallisey  were 
crashing  up  the  mountain-side,  calling  out:  "Hi, 
there!  Merryfield  —  Oh!  Merryfield,  wait  for  us!"  — 
as  if  their  comrade  had  outstripped  them  on  the  trail. 

Merryfield  had  made  use  of  the  noise  of  their  de- 
parture to  establish  himself  in  a  tenable  position  under 
the  widest  crack  in  the  floor.  Now  he  held  himself 
motionless,  subduing  even  his  breath. 

One  —  two  —  three  minutes  of  dead  silence.  Then 
came  the  timorous  half- whisper  of  a  frightened  child : 

"Will  them  men  kill  father  if  they  find  him?" 

"S-sh!" 

"Mother!"  faintly  ventured  another  little  voice, 
"will  them  men  kill  father  if  they  find  him?" 

"S-sh!  S-sh!  I  tell  ye!" 

"Ma-ma!  Will  they  kill  my  father?"  This  was  the 
wail,  insistent,  uncontrolled,  of  the  smallest  child  of 
all. 

The  crackling  tramp  of  the  officers,  mounting  the 
trail,  had  wholly  died  away.  The  woman  evidently 
believed  all  immediate  danger  past. 

"No ! "  she  exclaimed  vehemently,  "they  ain't  goin* 
to  lay  eyes  on  yo'  father,  hair  nor  hide  of  him.  Quit 
yerfrettin'!" 

In  a  moment  she  spoke  again:  "You  keep  still,  now, 


170        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

like  good  children,  while  I  go  out  and  empty  these 
peach-stones.  I '11  be  back  in  a  minute.  See  you  keep 
still  just  where  you  are!" 

Stealing  noiselessly  to  the  cellar  door  as  the  woman 
left  the  house,  Merryfield  saw  her  making  for  the 
woods,  a  basket  on  her  arm.  He  watched  her  till  the 
shadows  engulfed  her.  Then  he  drew  back  to  his  own 
place  and  resumed  his  silent  vigil. 

Moments  passed,  without  a  sound  from  the  room 
above.  Then  came  soft  little  thuds  on  the  floor,  a 
whimper  or  two,  small  sighs,  and  a  slither  of  bare  legs 
on  bare  boards. 

"  Poor  little  kiddies ! "  thought  Merryfield, "  they  're 
coiling  down  to  sleep!" 

Back  in  the  days  when  the  Force  was  started,  the 
Major  had  said  to  each  recruit  of  them  all:  — 

"I  expect  you  to  treat  women  and  children  at  all 
times  with  every  consideration." 

From  that  hour  forth  the  principle  has  been  grafted 
into  the  lives  of  the  men.  It  is  instinct  now  —  self- 
acting,  deep,  and  unconscious.  No  tried  Trooper  de- 
liberately remembers  it.  It  is  an  integral  part  of  him, 
like  the  drawing  of  his  breath. 

"I  wish  I  could  manage  to  spare  those  babies  and 
their  mother  in  what's  to  come!"  Merryfield  pon- 
dered as  he  lurked  hi  the  mould-scented  dark. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  went  by.  Five  minutes  more. 
Footsteps  nearing  the  cabin  from  the  direction  of  the 
woods.  Low  voices  —  very  low.  Indistinguishable 
words.  Then  the  back  door  opened.  Two  persons 
entered,  and  all  that  they  now  uttered  was  clear. 

"It  was  them  that  the  dog  heard,"  said  a  man's 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  171 

voice.  " Get  me  my  rifle  and  all  my  ammunition.  I'll 
go  to  Maryland.  I'll  get  a  job  on  that  stone  quarry 
near  Westminster.  I'll  send  some  money  as  soon  as 
I'm  paid." 

"But  you  won't  start  to-night!"  exclaimed  the  wife. 

"Yes,  to-night  —  this  minute.  Quick!  I  would  n't 
budge  an  inch  for  the  County  folks.  But  with  the 
State  Troopers  after  me,  that's  another  thing.  If  I 
stay  around  here  now  they  '11  get  me  dead  sure  —  and 
send  me  up  too.  My  gun,  I  say!" 

"Oh,  daddy,  daddy,  don't  go  away!"  "Don't  go 
away  off  and  leave  me,  daddy ! "  "  Don't  go,  don't  go ! " 
came  the  children's  plaintive  wails,  hoarse  with  fa- 
tigue and  fright. 

Merryfield  stealthily  crept  from  the  cellar's  out- 
side door,  hugging  the  wall  of  the  cabin,  moving  to- 
ward the  rear.  As  he  reached  the  corner,  and  was 
about  to  make  the  turn  toward  the  back,  he  drew  his 
six-shooter  and  laid  his  carbine  down  in  the  grass. 
For  the  next  step,  he  knew,  would  bring  him  into 
plain  sight.  If  Drake  offered  any  resistance,  the  en- 
suing action  would  be  at  short  range  or  hand  to 
hand. 

He  rounded  the  corner.  Drake  was  standing  just 
outside  the  door,  a  rifle  in  his  left  hand,  his  right  hand 
hidden  in  the  pocket  of  his  overcoat.  In  the  doorway 
stood  the  wife,  with  the  three  little  children  crowding 
before  her.  It  was  the  last  moment.  They  were  say- 
ing good-bye. 

Merryfield  covered  the  bandit  with  his  revolver. 

"Put  up  your  hands!  You  are  under  arrest,"  he 
commanded. 


178        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Who  the  hell  are  you!"  Drake  flung  back.  As  he 
spoke  he  thrust  his  rifle  into  the  grasp  of  the  woman 
and  snatched  his  right  hand  from  its  concealment.  In 
its  grip  glistened  the  barrel  of  a  nickel-plated  revolver. 

Merryfield  could  easily  have  shot  him  then  and 
there —  would  have  been  amply  warranted  in  doing 
so.  But  he  had  heard  the  children's  voices.  Now  he 
saw  their  innocent,  terrified  eyes. 

"Poor  —  little  —  kiddies!"  he  thought  again. 

Drake  stood  six  feet  two  inches  high,  and  weighed 
some  two  hundred  pounds,  all  brawn.  Furthermore, 
he  was  desperate.  Merryfield  is  merely  of  medium 
build. 

"Nevertheless,  I'll  take  a  chance,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, returning  his  six-shooter  to  its  holster.  And  just 
as  the  outlaw  threw  up  his  own  weapon  to  fire,  the 
Trooper,  in  a  running  jump,  plunged  into  him  with 
all  fours,  exactly  as,  when  a  boy,  he  had  plunged  off 
a  springboard  into  the  old  mill-dam  of  a  hot  July 
afternoon. 

Too  amazed  even  to  pull  his  trigger,  Drake  gave 
backward  a  step  into  the  doorway.  Merryfield's 
clutch  toward  his  right  hand  missed  the  gun,  fasten- 
ing instead  on  the  sleeve  of  his  heavy  coat.  Swearing 
wildly  while  the  woman  and  children  screamed  be- 
hind him,  the  bandit  struggled  to  break  the  Trooper's 
hold  —  tore  and  pulled  until  the  sleeve,  where  Merry- 
field  held  it,  worked  down  over  the  gun  in  his  own 
grip.  So  Merryfield,  twisting  the  sleeve,  caught  a 
lock-hold  on  hand  and  gun  together. 

Drake,  standing  on  the  doorsill,  had  now  some 
eight  inches  advantage  of  height.  The  door  opened 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  173 

inward,  from  right  to  left.  With  a  tremendous  effort 
Drake  forced  his  assailant  to  his  knees,  stepped  back 
into  the  room,  seized  the  door  with  his  left  hand  and 
with  the  whole  weight  of  his  shoulder  slammed  it  to, 
on  the  Trooper's  wrist. 

The  pain  was  excruciating  —  but  it  did  not  break 
that  lock-hold  on  the  outlaw's  hand  and  gun.  Shoot- 
ing from  his  knees  like  a  projectile,  Merryfield  flung 
his  whole  weight  at  the  door.  Big  as  Drake  was,  he 
could  not  hold  it.  It  gave,  and  once  more  the  two 
men  hung  at  grips,  this  time  within  the  room. 

Drake's  one  purpose  was  to  turn  the  muzzle  of  his 
imprisoned  revolver  upon  Merryfield.  Merryfield, 
with  his  left  still  clinching  that  deadly  hand  caught  in 
its  sleeve,  now  grabbed  the  revolver  in  his  own  right 
hand,  with  a  twist  dragged  it  free,  and  flung  it  out  of 
the  door. 

But,  as  he  dropped  his  right  defense,  taking  both 
hands  to  the  gun,  the  outlaw's  powerful  left  grip 
closed  on  Merryfield 's  throat  with  a  strangle-hold. 

With  that  great  thumb  closing  his  windpipe,  with 
the  world  turning  red  and  black,  "Guess  I  can't  put 
it  over,  after  all ! "  the  Trooper  said  to  himself. 

Reaching  for  his  own  revolver,  he  shoved  the 
muzzle  against  the  bandit's  breast. 

"Damn  you,  shoot!"  cried  the  other,  believing  his 
end  was  come. 

But  in  that  same  instant  Merryfield  once  more 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  fear-stricken  faces  of  the 
Jfbabies,  huddled  together  beyond. 

"Hallisey  and  Smith  must  be  here  soon,"  he 
thought.  "I  won't  shoot  yet." 


174        THE  STANDARD-BEAREES 

Again  he  dropped  his  revolver  back  into  the  hol- 
ster, seizing  the  wrist  of  the  outlaw  to  release  that 
terrible  clamp  on  his  throat.  As  he  did  so,  Drake, 
with  a  lightning  twist,  reached  around  to  the  Troop- 
er's belt  and  possessed  himself  of  the  gun.  As  he 
fired  Merryfield  had  barely  time  and  space  to  throw 
back  his  head.  The  flash  blinded  him  —  scorched  his 
face  hairless.  The  bullet  grooved  his  body  under  the 
upflung  left  arm  still  wrenching  at  the  clutch  that 
was  shutting  off  his  breath. 

Perhaps,  with  the  shot,  the  outlaw  insensibly  some- 
what relaxed  that  choking  grip.  Merryfield  tore  loose. 
Half-blinded  and  gasping  though  he  was,  he  flung 
himself  again  at  his  adversary  and  landed  a  blow  in 
his  face.  Drake,  giving  backward,  kicked  over  a  row 
of  peach  jars,  slipped  on  the  slimy  stream  that  poured 
over  the  bare  floor,  and  dropped  the  gun. 

Pursuing  his  advantage,  Merryfield  delivered  blow 
after  blow  on  the  outlaw's  face  and  body,  backing 
him  around  the  room,  while  both  men  slipped  and 
slid,  fell  and  recovered,  on  the  jam-coated  floor.  The 
table  crashed  over,  carrying  with  it  the  solitary 
lamp,  whose  flame  died  harmlessly,  smothered  in 
tepid  mush.  Now  only  the  moonlight  illumined  the 
scene. 

Drake  was  manoeuvring  always  to  recover  the  gun. 
His  hand  touched  the  back  of  a  chair.  He  picked  the 
chair  up,  swung  it  high,  and  was  about  to  smash  it 
down  on  his  adversary's  head  when  Merryfield  seized 
it  in  the  air. 

At  this  moment  the  woman,  who  had  been  crouch- 
ing against  the  wall  nursing  the  rule  that  her  husband 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  175 

had  put  into  her  charge,  rushed  forward  clutching 
the  barrel  of  the  gun,  swung  it  at  full  arm's  length  as 
she  would  have  swung  an  axe,  and  brought  the  stock 
down  on  the  Trooper's  right  hand. 

That  vital  hand  dropped  —  fractured,  done.  But 
in  the  same  second  Drake  gave  a  shriek  of  pain  as  a 
shot  rang  out  and  his  own  right  arm  fell  powerless. 

In  the  door  stood  Hallisey,  smoking  revolver  in 
hand,  smiling  grimly,  in  the  moonlight,  at  the  neat- 
ness of  his  own  aim.  What  is  the  use  of  killing  a  man, 
when  you  can  wing  him  as  trigly  as  that? 

Private  Smith,  who  had  entered  by  the  other  door, 
was  taking  the  rifle  out  of  the  woman's  grasp  — 
partly  because  she  had  prodded  him  viciously  with 
the  muzzle.  He  examined  the  chambers. 

"Do  you  know  this  thing  is  loaded?"  he  asked  her 
in  a  mild,  detached  voice. 

She  returned  his  gaze  with  frank  despair  in  her 
black  eyes. 

"Drake,  do  you  surrender?"  asked  Hallisey. 

"Oh,  I'll  give  up.  You've  got  me!"  groaned  the 
outlaw.  Then  he  turned  on  his  wife  with  bitter  anger. 
"Did  n't  I  tell  ye?"  he  snarled.  "Didn't  I  tell  ye 
they'd  get  me  if  you  kept  me  hangin'  around  here? 
These  ain't  no  damn  deputies.  These  is  the  State 
Police  /" 

"An'  yet,  if  I'd  known  that  gun  was  loaded,"  said 
j£she,  " there 'd  'a'  been  some  less  of  'em  to-night!" 

They  dressed  Israel's  arm  in  first-aid  fashion. 
Then  they  started  with  their  prisoner  down  the 
mountain-trail,  at  last  resuming  connection  with  their 
farmer  friend.  Not  without  misgivings,  the  latter 


176        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

consented  to  hitch  up  his  "double  team"  and  hurry 
the  party  to  the  nearest  town  where  a  doctor  could 
be  found. 

As  the  doctor  dressed  the  bandit's  arm,  Private 
Merryfield,  whose  broken  right  hand  yet  awaited 
care,  observed  to  the  groaning  patient:  — 

"Do  you  know,  you  can  be  thankful  to  your  little 
children  that  you  have  your  life  left." 

"To  hell  with  you  and  the  children  and  my  life. 
I'd  a  hundred  times  rather  you'd  killed  me  than  take 
what's  comin'  now." 

Then  the  three  Troopers  philosophically  hunted  up 
a  night  restaurant  and  gave  their  captive  a  bite  of 
lunch. 

"Now,"  said  Hallisey,  as  he  paid  the  score, "  where 's 
the  lock-up?" 

The  three  officers,  with  Drake  in  tow,  proceeded 
silently  through  the  sleeping  streets.  Not  a  ripple  did 
their  passing  occasion.  Not  even  a  dog  aroused  to 
take  note  of  them. 

Duly  they  stood  at  the  door  of  the  custodian  of  the 
lock-up,  ringing  the  bell  —  again  and  again  ringing 
it.  Eventually  some  one  upstairs  raised  a  window, 
looked  out  for  an  appreciable  moment,  quickly  low- 
ered the  window,  and  locked  it.  Nothing  further  oc- 
curred. Waiting  for  a  reasonable  interval  the  officers 
rang  once  more.  No  answer.  Silence  complete. 

Then  they  pounded  on  the  door  till  the  entire  block 
heard. 

Here,  there,  up  street  and  down,  bedroom  windows 
gently  opened,  then  closed  with  finality  more  gentle 
yet.  Silence.  Not  a  voice.  Not  a  foot  on  a  stair. 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  177 

The  officers  looked  at  each  other  perplexed.  Then, 
by  chance,  they  looked  at  Drake.  Drake,  so  lately 
black  with  suicidal  gloom,  was  grinning !  Grinning  as 
a  man  does  when  the  citadel  of  his  heart  is  comforted. 

"You  don't  understand,  do  ye!"  chuckled  he. 
"Well,  I'll  tell  ye:  What  do  them  folks  see  when  they 
open  their  windows  and  look  down  here  in  the  road? 
They  see  three  hard-lookin'  fellers  with  guns  in  their 
hands,  here  in  this  bright  moonlight.  And  they  see 
somethin'  scarier  to  them  than  a  hundred  strangers 
with  guns  —  they  see  ME!  There  ain't  a  mother's 
son  of  'em  that'll  budge  downstairs  while  I'm  here, 
not  if  you  pound  on  their  doors  till  the  cows  come 
home."  And  he  slapped  his  knee  with  his  good  hand 
and  laughed  in  pure  ecstasy  —  a  laugh  that  caught  all 
the  little  group  and  rocked  it  as  with  one  mind. 

"We  don't  begrudge  you  that,  do  we,  boys?" 
Hallisey  conceded.  "Smith,  you're  as  respectable- 
looking  as  any  of  us.  Hunt  around  and  see  if  you  can 
find  a  Constable  that  isn't  onto  this  thing.  We'll 
wait  here  for  you." 

Moving  out  of  the  zone  of  the  late  demonstration, 
Private  Smith  learned  the  whereabouts  of  the  home 
of  a  Constable. 

"What's  wanted?"  asked  the  Constable,  respond- 
ing like  a  normal  burgher  to  Smith's  knock  at  his 
door. 

"Officer  of  State  Police,"  answered  Smith.  "I  have 
a  man  under  arrest  and  want  to  put  him  in  the  lock- 
up. Will  you  get  me  the  keys?" 

"Sure.  I'll  come  right  down  and  go  along  with  you 
myself.  Just  give  me  a  jiffy  to  get  on  my  trousers  and 


178        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

boots,"  cried  the  Constable,  clearly  glad  of  a  share  in 
adventure. 

In  a  moment  the  borough  official  was  at  the  Troop- 
er's side,  talking  eagerly  as  they  moved  toward  the 
place  where  the  party  waited. 

"So  he's  a  highwayman,  is  he?  Good!  And  a  bur- 
glar, too,  and  a  cattle-thief!  Good  work!  And  you've 
got  him  right  up  the  street  here,  ready  to  jail!  Well, 
I'll  be  switched.  Now,  what  might  his  name  be? 
Israel  Drake?  Not  Israel  Drake  I  Oh,  my  God!" 

The  Constable  had  stopped  in  his  tracks  like  a  man 
struck  paralytic. 

"No,  stranger,"  he  quavered.  "I  reckon  I  —  I  —  I 
won't  go  no  further  with  you  just  now.  Here,  I'll 
give  you  the  keys.  You  can  use  'em  yourself.  These 
here's  for  the  doors.  This  bunch  is  for  the  cells. 
Good-night  to  you.  I'll  be  getting  back  home!" 

By  the  first  train  next  morning  the  Troopers,  con- 
veying their  prisoner,  left  the  village  for  the  County 
Town.  As  they  deposited  Drake  in  the  safe-keep- 
ing of  the  County  Jail  and  were  about  to  depart,  he 
seemed  burdened  with  an  impulse  to  speak,  yet  said 
nothing.  Then,  as  the  three  officers  were  leaving  the 
room,  he  leaned  over  and  touched  Merryfield  on  the 
shoulder. 

"  Shake ! "  he  growled,  offering  his  unwounded  hand. 

Merryfield  "shook"  cheerfully,  with  his  own  re- 
maining sound  member. 

"I'm  plumb  sorry  to  see  ye  go,  and  that's  a  fact," 
growled  the  outlaw.  "Because — well,  because  you  're 
the  only  man  that  ever  tried  to  arrest  me." 


VII 

THE  COON-HUNTERS 

"ilTHEN  "C"  Troop  delivered  Israel  Drake  into 

»  *  the  grasp  of  the  District  Attorney  of  Cumber- 
land County,  the  District  Attorney's  soul  was  suf- 
fused with  joy.  Then,  because  it  was  good,  he  asked 
for  more  —  asked  for  the  body  of  Carey  Morrison. 

In  the  interval,  however,  "C"  Troop  had  been  so 
besought  for  help  from  many  other  quarters,  both 
official  and  private,  that  not  a  single  man  of  the  com- 
mand remained  free  to  aid  the  District  Attorney  of 
Cumberland.  So  the  Superintendent  of  State  Police 
referred  the  request  to  **B  "  Troop,  presiding  over  the 
next  nearest  State  Police  section,  with  orders  that 
two  Troopers  report  at  once  to  departmental  head- 
quarters at  Harrisburg. 

In  accordance  with  the  command,  Sergeant  Her- 
bert Smith  and  Private  Chalkley  N.  Booth  forthwith 
reported  at  Harrisburg.  Here  they  received,  first,  a 
warrant  for  the  arrest  of  Carey  Morrison,  wanted 
for  arson,  burglary,  felonious  assault,  and  minor  of- 
fenses; second,  a  pencil  sketch  roughly  showing  the 
region  in  which  Morrison  was  supposed  to  be  lurk- 
ing; and,  third,  the  instruction,  bare  of  all  detail, 
to  "go  get  the  man." 

Sergeant  Smith  and  Private  Booth  had  talked  over 
a  possible  line  of  campaign  while  en  route  to  head- 
quarters. Nothing  that  they  learned  there  having 


180       THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

affected  their  notion,  they  now  went  out,  bought 
themselves  canvas  hunting-suits  and  borrowed  two 
shotguns.  Then  they  took  the  next  train  from  Harris- 
burg  to  Mount  Holly  Springs  Junction.  At  this  junc- 
tion they  transferred  to  a  goat-path  railroad  heading 
up  into  the  hills. 

Then*  destination  was  a  tiny  mountain  settlement, 
about  fifteen  miles,  as  the  crow  flies,  north  of  Gettys- 
burg. The  two  Troopers,  as  the  little  engine  labored 
up  the  heavy  grades,  gossiped  carelessly  with  the 
train-hands  concerning  it.  It  was  a  place  of  about 
ninety  inhabitants,  they  learned  —  twenty  houses;  a 
general  store  and  post-office;  poor  mountain  people; 
had  a  hard  life  of  it,  generally.  Carey  Morrison,  one 
of  Israel  Drake's  gang,  had  worked  it  over  pretty 
thoroughly,  with  no  light  hand.  Now,  since  Drake's 
capture  by  the  Troopers,  folks  did  say  Carey  was 
hiding  out,  but  —  better  not  count  on  that! 

At  the  General  Store  and  Post-Office  the  two  of- 
ficers asked  where  they  could  find  board.  They  let 
it  be  understood  that  they  were  Philadelphia  sports- 
men, friends  of  Mr.  Cameron,  owner  of  much  forest 
thereabout,  and  that  they  would  like  to  do  a  little 
hunting  by  themselves  while  waiting  the  arrival  of 
their  host  with  the  dogs. 

Only  one  house  in  the  settlement  could  accommo- 
date boarders,  they  were  told.  So  they  applied  and 
were  received  at  that  little  farm.  For  a  day  or  two 
they  tramped  the  woods  with  their  guns,  stopping 
hither  and  yon  at  mountain  cabins  for  a  light  for 
their  pipes,  for  a  drink  of  water,  for  a  bit  of  casual 
talk,  striving  always  to  pick  up  news. 


THE  COON-HUNTERS  181 

But  news  of  Carey  Morrison  was  very  hard  to  get. 
The  entire  mountain  population  was  literally  afraid 
to  mention  his  name.  In  this  his  peculiar  haunt  he  was 
as  greatly  dreaded  as  was  his  leader,  Israel  Drake,  in 
a  wider  field.  Three  times  he  had  robbed  the  store 
and  rifled  the  post-office  safe.  Twice  he  had  burned 
the  mountain-side.  He  had  committed  innumerable 
robberies  and  assaults.  Once  he  had  walked  up  to  a 
farmer  as  he  stood  in  his  shed  chopping  wood,  with 
the  peremptory  demand :  — 

"I  want  five  dollars  of  ye!" 

And  when  the  farmer  ventured  to  demur,  Carey, 
snatching  the  axe  out  of  the  man's  grasp,  chopped  off 
his  right  hand. 

Almost  every  Constable  in  the  County  held  a  copy 
of  the  warrant  for  Carey's  arrest,  but,  small  blame  to 
them,  Carey  still  went  free.  Very  recently  the  local 
Constable  had  "hired  out"  to  a  farmer  to  pick  the 
apples  in  an  orchard  high  on  the  mountain-side. 
Perhaps  the  orchard  lay  too  high,  too  near  his  own 
eyrie,  to  please  Carey  Morrison.  At  all  events,  when 
Carey,  moving  over  his  domain,  espied  the  village  of- 
ficer so  engaged,  he  descended  at  once  to  the  orchard- 
owner's  house. 

Towering  in  the  doorway,  shutting  out  the  sunlight 
with  the  terror  of  his  big  and  sinewy  bulk,  he  issued 
his  edict:  — 

"Constable  is  picking  apples  up  in  your  orchard. 
Tell  him  if  I  ever  see  him  there  again  I  am  going  to  kill 
him." 

The  farmer  tremblingly  obeyed.  The  Constable 
tremblingly  conformed.  And  no  one  would  willingly 


182        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

pronounce  the  name  of  Carey  Morrison  for  fear  the 
very  shadows  might  be  his  messengers. 

Yet  through  their  silence  pierced  once  and  again 
some  little  rays  of  light.  Brought  all  together  these 
showed  the  general  direction  and  area  in  which  the 
man  should  be  sought.  Unfortunately,  that  area  lay 
in  a  territory  obviously  bad  for  hunting,  while  the 
good  game-grounds  stared  from  the  opposite  quarter. 

The  two  officers  were  by  no  means  blind  to  this  flaw 
in  their  pose,  yet  for  the  mo^nent  they  saw  no  choice 
but  to  risk  the  suspicion  that  it  brought  upon  their 
heads. 

Meantime,  in  the  boarding-house,  the  strongly 
developed  native  curiosity  of  their  host  and  hostess  in- 
creased apace.  On  the  very  day  of  their  arrival  the 
Troopers  had  seen  the  necessity  of  satisfying  it  with 
food  fit  for  their  ends.  Private  Booth,  therefore,  had 
written  two  decoy  letters  —  one  to  an  imaginary 
friend  in  Boston,  another  to  a  creature  of  his  brain 
elsewhere  addressed,  dealing  with  hunting-dogs  and 
discussing  plans  for  a  trip.  These  letters  he  had  left 
on  his  bureau  carelessly  unsealed;  and  he  had  found 
with  satisfaction,  when  next  he  returned  to  his  room, 
that  the  two  missives  had  met  their  intended  fate. 

But  the  soporific  did  not  long  suffice,  and,  to  make 
matters  vastly  worse,  it  chanced  that  a  series  of  bur- 
glaries, begun  in  the  region  just  previous  to  their  ar- 
rival, now  continued  nightly.  The  spinster  teacher 
of  the  district  school,  resident  in  the  house,  conceived 
the  pestilential  idea  that  the  two  "hunters"  were  no 
other  than  the  burglars  in  disguise.  Harping  on  that 
string,  she  so  imbued  the  rest  of  the  household  with 


THE  COON-HUNTERS  183 

her  own  belief  and  fear  that  several  persons  sat  up 
each  night  to  spy  upon  the  possible  goings  and  com- 
ings of  the  "Philadelphia  sportsmen." 

This  was  hampering  enough,  but  when  at  last  the 
village  Constable,  he  who  dared  not  displease  Carey 
Morrison,  began  stealthily  trailing  them  about  in  the 
woods,  the  two  officers  were  more  amused  than  vexed. 

Nevertheless,  the  diurnal  routine  of  losing  the  Con- 
stable came  soon  to  be  rather  a  handicap.  For  now 
the  trail  was  growing  warm.  The  "hunters"  had  dis- 
covered, in  a  mountaineer  named  Cox,  a  brother-in- 
law  of  Morrison's. 

Cox,  lank  and  idle,  butternut-jeaned,  lived  high 
among  the  ledges,  far  above  the  settlement,  and  alone. 
Constitutionally  suspicious  of  all  strangers,  he,  too, 
was  prone  to  curiosity,  in  the  wildwood  way  of  his 
kind.  Like  wily  snarers  of  a  light-winged  bird,  the 
Troopers  at  first  played  for  his  interest  by  hunting 
around  his  perch,  without  visible  remark  of  his  exist- 
ence beyond  a  passing  nod.  Next  day  they  drew  a 
little  nearer.  Later,  they  ventured  a  word,  and  so,  by 
increasingly  rapid  degrees,  became  friends. 

Some  odds  and  ends  of  dogs  were  hanging  about 
the  shack. 

"These  look  like  promising  coon-dogs,"  hazarded 
Private  Booth. 

"Good  coon-dogs,  them  be!"  rejoined  the  moun- 
taineer with  warmth. 

"If  there's  anything  I  do  love  it's  coon-hunting!" 
cried  Booth. 

"Good  coon-hunting  back  yonder,"  vouchsafed 
Butternut-Jeans,  with  a  jerk  of  the  thumb  toward 


184        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

the  high  woods,  "but  them  dogs  belong  to  a  brother- 
in-law  of  mine.  They  won't  work  their  best  for  me." 

"I'll  give  you  ten  dollars  if  you'll  take  us  out  with 
'em,  anyway,"  Booth  pursued,  with  growing  enthu- 
siasm. 

"Nothin'  ag'in'  that,"  assented  the  mountaineer. 
"When  d'  yer  want  to  go?" 

"Well,  let's  see — "Booth  pondered,  looking  in- 
terrogatively at  Smith. 

"Not  before  to-morrow  night,  I  reckon.  Make  it 
to-morrow  night,"  responded  Smith,  with  decision. 

And  so,  having  arranged  to  meet  again  at  Cox's 
cabin  on  the  following  noon,  they  parted  for  the  day. 

As  the  two  Troopers  dropped  down  the  mountain- 
side toward  supper  and  their  distrustful  house-mates, 
Sergeant  Herbert  Smith  divulged  his  plan.  The  de- 
tails of  that  plan  are  his  secret  —  the  fruit  of  his  own 
wily  brain.  But  his  statement  to  his  comrade  ended 
thus:  — 

"And  so,  you  see,  Cox  will  be  called  away.  He'll 
leave  to-morrow  afternoon.  And  we  two  will  manage 
the  rest  very  easily." 

True  to  their  appointment  the  two  reappeared  at 
Cox's  shack  at  the  hour  agreed.  The  mountaineer  sat 
on  his  doorstep,  his  hat  pushed  back  on  his  head, 
whittling  a  stick  without  purpose.  Plainly,  his  state 
of  mind  was  mixed. 

"Reckon  I  can't  take  you  fellers  out  to-night,  after 
all,"  he  remarked,  without  looking  up. 

"Oh,  come  now!"  remonstrated  Booth,  "what's 
come  over  you,  man?" 

"Got  a  call  to  go  away  for  a  couple  o'  days," 


THE  COON-HUNTERS  185 

answered  the  whittler,  gruff  with  embarrassing  pride. 
"Business.  Got  to  leave  before  sundown,  sure." 

"Well,  now,"  ejaculated  Sergeant  Smith,  "if  that 
is  n't  the  meanest  yet!  Why,  we've  got  to  get  back 
home  in  a  couple  of  days  ourselves,  and  I  did  want  a 
night's  coon-hunting  the  worst  way!" 

"I  kinder  hate  to  lose  that  ten  dollars,  too,"  re- 
flected Cox. 

"Oh,  look  here!"  protested  Smith.  "We  can't  let 
it  go  like  this.  Say,  if  you'll  find  some  one  to  take 
us  out  with  the  dogs  to-night  we'll  give  you  that  ten 
dollars,  anyway,  and  square  it  with  the  other  man 
besides." 

Cox  meditated,  brightening. 

"Mebbe  I  might  fix  that,"  he  conceded.  "But 
there's  only  one  other  man  could  work  them  dogs. 
That's  my  brother-in-law,  that  owns  'em.  And  I  ain't 
sure  he'd  do  it.  You  see,  you  don't  know  who  my 
brother-in-law  is,  yet.  Well,  I'll  tell  ye:  He 9s  Carey 
Morrison!" 

Cox  paused  with  patent  satisfaction,  to  watch  the 
bomb  fall. 

"You  don't  mean  it!"  gasped  the  coon-hunters, 
looking  askance  over  their  shoulders  as  though  the 
woods  had  suddenly  rustled  with  ghosts. 

"  Thought  it'd  scare  ye!"  chuckled  Cox.  "But  you 
don't  need  to  be  scared  of  him  jest  now,  not  so  much 
as  usual.  Fact  is,  he's  hidin'  out  these  days.  You 
see,  he's  done  what  he  pleased  in  these  here  moun- 
tains so  long  that  he  did  n't  ever  reckon  no  other 
way.  He'd  got  all  the  folks  trained  to  give  him  his 
own  will,  peaceable.  They  never  interfere  with  him. 


186        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

But  here,  the  other  day,  after  a  little  sport  that  Israel 
Drake  had  with  a  couple  of  old  misers,  what  does  the 
District  Attorney  down  to  Carlisle  do  but  up  and 
hand  out  a  warrant  to  the  State  Wild  Cats! 

"And  I'm  damned  if  them  crazy  Wild  Cats  did  n't 
go  in  and  nab  Israel  Drake  the  very  first  jump !  Him 
that  had  laughed  at  the  whole  County  for  years  and 
years!  You  most  could  n't  believe  it! 

"So  now,  that's  why  Carey's  a  little  skeered.  He 
does  n't  mind  nobody  else  on  God's  green  earth,  but 
he  sure  does  fear  Them  that  got  Israel  Drake. 

"Of  course,  there's  a  lot  of  us  that's  his  brothers 
and  cousins,  kin  and  kind,  'round  on  the  Mountain, 
that  will  stand  by  him  till  hell  freezes  shet.  But  it 
seems  like  he's  got  these  State's  men  on  his  mind.  I 
reckon  he's  hipped  about  it.  They  ain't  never  been 
seen  'round  these  woods.  And  none  of  'em  ain't  goin' 
to  dare  show  themselves  here,  neither.  But  since  they 
got  Israel  Drake,  Carey's  like  he's  plumb  locoed. 
He 's  looking  for  'em  behind  every  bush,  not  knowin* 
what  shape  they  '11  come  in.  But  you  fellers  wait  for 
me  here  and  I  '11  go  over  to  Carey's  place  and  ask  him. 
Reckon  he  might  like  a  little  money  himself,  just  now, 
to  skip  away  out  of  this." 

The  two  Troopers  let  Cox  get  out  of  sight.  Then, 
with  their  trained  woodsmen's  skill,  they  trailed  him, 
soundless  as  Indians.  As  he  reached  his  destination 
—  a  little  barn-like  slab  shack  buried  in  thick  brush 
by  the  edge  of  an  abandoned  slate  quarry — they  had 
him  well  in  view. 

"Carey!"  Cox  called  within  the  door,  and  again  in 
a  suppressed  voice  around  the  place, "  Carey !  Carey  I " 


THE  COON-HUNTERS  187 

No  answer.  Cox  sought  a  little  further,  as  though 
his  man  might  be  sleeping  in  the  cover  of  some  rock 
or  bush.  Then  he  turned,  evidently  convinced  that 
the  search  was  useless.  When  he  regained  his  own 
cabin  the  two  coon-hunters  were  lying  on  their  backs 
in  the  shade  of  the  wall,  half  asleep,  smoking  their 
pipes. 

"Well,"  asked  Smith,  rearing  up  on  one  elbow  with 
a  yawn.  "Did  you  find  him?" 

"He  ain't  there.  But  I  reckon  to  find  him  on  my 
way  out.  I  '11  start  now,  so 's  to  have  time  to  hunt  him 
and  I'll  send  him  back  here  to  ye.  Will  that  do?" 

"First-rate,"  answered  Smith  heartily.  "Where 
shall  I  leave  the  money  for  you,  if  he  comes  up?" 

"Oh,  leave  it  in  yonder  coffee-can,  inside  on  the 
shelf ,  under  the  beans.  I '11  tell  Carey  about  it."  And 
the  mountaineer,  with  a  good-bye  nod,  vanished  into 
the  forest. 

Hours  passed,  while  the  pair  conscientiously  en- 
acted the  role  of  care-free  idlers,  dozing  and  loafing 
about  the  empty  cabin.  Well  aware  that  the  wary 
eyes  of  the  outlaw  might  be  scanning  their  every 
move  from  behind  some  near-by  screen  of  leaves, 
they  gave  their  best  thought  to  the  behavior  natural 
to  coon-hunters  under  such  circumstances,  and  they 
conducted  themselves  accordingly  to  a  hair's  breadth. 

But  though  chipmunks,  rabbits,  and  blue  jays  came 
to  gaze  upon  them  with  impartial  interest,  no  human 
being  appeared  —  no  Carey  Morrison. 

"No  use,"  murmured  Smith,  at  last,  as  twilight 
began  to  fall.  "Either  Cox  did  n't  find  him,  or  else 
he's  too  scary  and  won't  come." 


188        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"My  idea,"  said  Booth,  "would  be  to  go  back  to 
the  settlement  and  get  a  fresh  start  in  the  morning." 

That  night,  as  Sergeant  Smith  blew  out  his  candle, 
he  was  distinctly  aware  of  an  eye  withdrawn  from  his 
keyhole  —  of  a  rustle  retreating  down  the  hall. 

"If  we  don't  provide  some  excitement  for  her  soon, 
it  will  be  a  cruel  and  unusual  punishment! "  he  said 
to  himself,  as  he  dropped  into  his  first  sleep. 

Next  dawn  as  the  Troopers  sat  over  their  cornbread 
and  bacon,  their  host's  face  was  full  of  puzzled  dis- 
trust. As  he  left  the  table  he  crossed  the  room  and 
took  his  gun  from  its  nail  on  the  wall. 

"They  was  another  house-breaking  on  the  Moun- 
tain last  night,"  said  he  casually,  examining  the  lock 
of  the  weapon.  "If  we  could  lay  hands  on  them  fellers 
once — "  And  he  looked  up  sharply  at  his  two  stranger 
guests  as  though  he  expected  to  surprise  them  wearing 
faces  of  guilt. 

That  morning  the  village  Constable,  cheerfully  un- 
conscious that  he  was  himself  observed,  kept  up  his 
forest  watch  with  the  tenacity  of  a  dragging  bramble, 
so  that  it  cost  the  Troopers  a  half-hour  of  patient 
doubling  to  lose  him  effectually. 

"This  sort  of  thing  would  get  to  be  a  nuisance," 
growled  Smith,  as  they  finally  cast  off  their  pursuer. 
"Now,  let's  get  down  to  the  job." 

Cutting  across  buttresses  and  ravines  that  they  had 
come  to  know  as  well  as  they  knew  the  insides  of  their 
own  pockets,  they  made  for  the  old  slate  quarry 
smothered  in  the  brush. 

As  they  neared  the  spot,  they  separated,  with  the 
agreement  that  Sergeant  Smith  should  come  up  upon 


THE  COON-HUNTERS  189 

the  rear  of  the  shack,  while  Private  Booth  approached 
from  the  other  direction. 

Gliding  noiselessly,  Smith  had  already  attained  his 
chosen  position,  —  the  cover  of  a  stone  wall  close  at 
the  back  of  the  cabin,  while  Booth  had  advanced  to 
within  two  hundred  feet  of  the  front  door,  —  when 
that  door  opened  and  a  man  came  out,  a  big  man, 
heavy  and  tall.  His  manner  was  unconcerned  and 
free.  Clearly,  he  thought  himself  alone. 

"Hello,  Cox,"  called  Booth. 

No  answer,  but  the  man,  looking  up,  instantly 
averted  his  head. 

The  glimpse  had  been  enough.  In  that  full,  heavy 
visage,  in  those  black  eyes,  Booth  recognized  beyond 
a  doubt  the  description  of  Carey  Morrison. 

"Morrison,"  he  commanded,  "throw  up  your 
hands.  You  are  under  arrest."  As  he  spoke,  he 
cocked  one  barrel  of  his  shotgun. 

Morrison,  swinging  like  a  flash,  drew  a  heavy  re- 
volver—  an  Army  Colt  —  fired  twice,  and  missed. 
In  the  same  instant  Booth  fired  also. 

Morrison  flinched,  as  though  lead  had  touched  him, 
and  jumped  for  the  cover  of  a  tree  at  the  side  of  the 
house.  But  this  move  brought  him  unawares  within 
range  of  Sergeant  Smith.  And  so,  as  Private  Booth, 
standing  in  the  open,  coolly  waited  his  chance  at  a 
shot  at  Morrison,  and  as  Morrison,  behind  his  tree, 
as  coolly  debated  the  deadliest  moment  for  Private 
Booth,  Sergeant  Herbert  Smith,  congratulating  him- 
self on  the  unusual  ammunition  that  he  had  per- 
suaded his  duck  gun  to  hold,  shot  the  bandit  with 
exact  calculation  just  above  the  knee. 


190        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Don't  shoot!  Oh,  don't  shoot  any  more.  I  give 
up!"  implored  Morrison,  crumpling  down  in  a  heap, 
then  writhing  his  full  length  on  the  ground. 

Booth  was  running  in,  —  had  almost  reached  him, 
—  when  the  outlaw,  with  a  snarl,  jerked  himself  to 
his  elbow  and  threw  up  his  gun  to  fire. 

But  before  he  could  drop  the  hammer  something  as 
sudden  as  a  thunderbolt  happened  to  that  aiming  arm, 
and  Morrison  found  himself  again  sprawling  on  his 
back,  gazing  with  amazement  into  the  disconcerting 
eyes  of  Sergeant  Herbert  Smith. 

"Here!"  said  the  Sergeant  reproachfully,  "don't 
you  know  you 're  under  arrest?  Now,  be  still  till  we 
put  a  tourniquet  on  you,  or  you'll  bleed  to  death." 

As  the  two  officers  worked  over  the  body  of  the 
prostrate  man,  the  pain  of  the  wound,  the  fear  of 
punishment,  the  dread  of  prison,  so  worked  upon  his 
mind  that  before  them  his  nerve  disappeared  utterly. 

"Shoot  me!  Shoot  me  now!"  he  entreated.  "Jest 
shoot  me  through  the  head  and  be  done  with  it.  I 
can't  live  in  prison.  I  can't  stand  this  pain.  Oh,  shoot 
me  now!  Do!  Do!" 

Soon  the  practised  skill  of  the  officers  had  stopped 
the  flow  of  blood  from  the  wounded  leg.  So  much 
achieved,  Trooper  Booth  started  off  to  find  a  convey- 
ance, while  the  Sergeant  remained  with  the  prisoner. 
Nothing  was  more  probable  than  an  attempt  at 
rescue  should  Morrison's  friends  learn  of  his  plight. 
So  the  Sergeant,  after  looking  to  his  own  weapons, 
reloaded  the  outlaw's  gun  and  laid  that,  too,  ready  at 
hand,  while  with  eye  and  ear  he  kept  lynx's  watch 
upon  the  encompassing  circle  of  brush. 


THE  COON-HUNTERS  191 

Meantime  Trooper  Booth  was  cutting  down  and 
across  through  the  forest,  seeking  a  man  with  a  cart. 
Finally,  by  happy  chance,  he  found  that  very  phe- 
nomenon. Near  a  mud-chinked  cabin,  in  a  little  clear- 
ing, backed  up  to  a  pile  of  freshly  dug  potatoes,  was  a 
cart.  A  horse  stood  between  the  shafts,  and  a  big, 
rawboned,  thick- whiskered  mountaineer  was  just  pre- 
paring to  load  the  crop. 

"How  do  you  do,"  said  the  Trooper. 

"Howdy,"  rejoined  the  other,  civilly  enough. 

"I'd  like  to  hire  your  horse  and  wagon  to  go  to 
Bendersville.  A  man  has  been  shot  up  in  the  woods. 
We  have  to  take  him  to  the  nearest  doctor." 

"Well  —  't  ain't  very  convenient.  I  was  just  get- 
ting ready  to  load.  But  if  the  man  is  bad  hurt,  I  sup- 
pose you  kin  have  the  rig." 

And  then,  idly,  "Who's  the  man?" 

"Carey  Morrison." 

The  mountaineer  dropped  his  hands. 

"You  can't  have  this  wagon!"  he  exclaimed 
roughly. 

"Will  you  get  into  the  wagon  and  come  along 
peaceably?" 

"I  tell  ye,  I  won't  come  at  all." 

Booth  drew  his  service  Colt's.  "Get  on  that 
wagon,"  said  he. 

The  mountaineer  did  as  he  was  bid. 

Booth  guided  his  gloomy  captive  back  toward  the 
quarry.  They  hitched  the  horse  at  the  point  of  road 
nearest  the  quarry  trail.  Then  they  went  in,  and,  all 
three  aiding,  carried  the  helpless  prisoner  out  in  their 
arms. 


192        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

The  mountaineer's  bearded  visage  was  a  moving 
map  of  contradictory  emotions  as  he  looked  from  the 
Terror  of  the  Mountain,  now  so  incredibly  abject  in 
his  whimpering  defeat,  to  the  two  who  were  so  un- 
concernedly bearing  him  away. 

Carey  must  have  given  them  a  fight;  so  much  was 
sure,  no  matter  how  craven  he  seemed  now.  And 
yet  they  were  handling  him  as  gently,  and  yet  they 
were  as  careful  to  spare  him  pain,  as  if  he  had  been 
their  comrade  and  their  friend! 

And  again,  this  whining  mass  of  flesh  and  fear,  this 
inconsiderable  carcass  that  could  no  longer  hurt  a 
mouse,  this  was  the  very  being  that  for  years  had  im- 
posed his  bloody  will  upon  the  country-side  and  whom 
all  the  country-side  had  obeyed  with  panic  in  its  heart. 

How  had  it  happened?  What  could  it  mean? 

"Stranger,"  he  broke  out  at  last,  "askin*  your 
pardon,  who  might  ye  be?  " 

"Officers  of  the  State  Police." 

"Them  the  bad  niggers  calls  State  Wild  Cats?"  he 
ventured  further,  breathlessly  daring. 

"Yes." 

The  mountaineer  looked  to  right  and  left,  and  be- 
hind, as  if  to  reassure  himself  of  the  place,  of  his  au- 
ditors. "Them"  —  and  he  whispered  as  gingerly  as 
if  the  words  might  burn  his  lips  —  "  them  as  got  Israel 
Drake?" 

"No,"  rejoined  the  Sergeant,  "those  were  com- 
rades of  ours,  of  the  State  Police.  But  they  did  n't 
have  time  for  a  little  job  like  this"  And  with  a 
depreciative  gesture  of  the  chin  he  indicated  the  inert 
figure  that  they  were  now  loading  into  the  cart. 


THE  COON-HUNTERS  193 

With  dropped  jaw  the  mountaineer  drank  in  each 
word. 

In  the  whole  Borough  of  Bendersville  there  are 
about  three  hundred  and  fifty  inhabitants.  On  the 
main  street  of  the  town  are  the  doctor's  house,  the 
"hotel,"  a  few  shops,  and  a  few  dwellings.  Into  the 
doctor's  door  the  Troopers  now  bore  Morrison. 

"Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  look  him  over,  doctor, 
and  give  him  first  aid?"  requested  the  Sergeant. 
"We'll  take  him  to  the  nearest  hospital  when  you've 
fixed  him  up  for  the  trip." 

The  doctor  examined  the  wounded  man  with  some 
care.  "I  suppose  I  might  bandage  him  up  fresh,"  he 
said,  as  he  finished.  "But  the  fact  is  you  boys  have 
applied  first  aid  as  well  as  I  could  myself  and —  In 
Heaven's  name,  what's  happening  outside?" 

The  street  outside  was  filled  with  people  —  with 
strange,  wild-looking  men,  gaunt-faced,  fierce-eyed, 
lean-framed,  rifles  in  hand  and  revolvers  at  belt  — 
with  women  as  strange,  wild-eyed,  and  fierce.  By 
twos  and  threes,  in  carts  or  on  horseback,  they  had 
been  descending  into  the  village  from  the  mountain 
roads  and  trails  ever  since  the  advent  of  Carey  Morri- 
son in  his  captor's  hands.  By  what  telegraphy  they 
had  learned,  in  their  widely  scattered  eyries,  of  the 
mischance  befallen  their  kinsman  and  chief,  who  shall 
guess?  But  here  they  were  on  the  very  heels  of  his 
disaster,  pressing  hard  around  the  doctor's  door. 

Their  sympathies  lay  all  with  the  prisoner  —  that 
was  clear.  Loud  and  louder  rose  their  curses  of  the  un- 
known who  had  dared  to  intrude  upon  their  domain. 


194        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Loud  and  louder  rose  their  threats  of  attack  and  res- 
cue, as  their  numbers  grew.  And  then,  with  a  rumor 
of  climax  running  before  it,  came  a  movement  down 
the  centre  of  the  crowd,  a  tossing  to  right  and  left  like 
the  tossing  of  spray  by  the  prow  of  a  ship,  as  a  tall, 
savage  woman  clove  her  way  through. 

She  burst  open  the  door  and  stood  on  the  thresh- 
hold  of  the  little  office.  She  was  hard  of  feature, 
arrow-eyed,  with  straight,  coarse,  true  black  hair;  a 
half-breed  Indian. 

"Where  is  my  man?"  she  demanded,  in  a  terrible 
voice. 

Then  her  glance  fell  on  the  figure  collapsed  on  the 
doctor's  lounge.  She  paused  as  if  fascinated,  eyes 
riveted  to  Carey's  white,  whimpering  face,  while  her 
magnificent  fury  slowly  faded  into  a  flat  contempt. 

"And  two  strangers  could  bring  you  to  thai!"  she 
said  as  if  to  herself.  She  wheeled  to  leave  the  room. 
From  the  doorstep  she  flung  back  a  barb:  — 

"Why,  if  I'd  been  there  I'd  have  killed  them  both 
myself!" 

If  Carey  Morrison  should  ever  return  to  the  world 
he  must  seek  a  new  mate. 

But  another,  who  had  pressed  into  the  room  in  the 
wake  of  the  wife,  remained  to  gaze  with  wonder  and 
incredulity  upon  the  prisoner's  face. 

"Who  done  it  to  ye,  Carey?"  he  burst  out  at 
last. 

It  was  as  if  the  tone  and  words  gave  the  wreck  on 
the  couch  the  one  spur  that  could  arouse  him  to 
speech.  Slowly  he  opened  his  eyes  and  gazed  his  in- 
terlocutor full  in  the  face. 


THE  COON-HUNTERS  195 

"Cox,  it  was  your  coon-hunters  done  it  to  me"  re- 
torted he,  and  gasped  into  silence. 

Angry  faces,  threatening  faces,  came  thrusting 
over  Cox's  shoulder.  The  place  was  filling  up. 

"Doctor,"  said  the  Sergeant,  "with  your  permis- 
sion we  will  clear  the  office.  After  that  we  will  clear 
the  town." 

"Go  ahead,"  whispered  the  doctor,  "but  don't  say 
I  said  so  —  and  good  luck  to  you!" 

Trooper  Booth  pulled  out  his  watch.  "If  any  of 
you  wish  to  say  good-bye  to  Carey  Morrison,  say  it 
now,"  said  he.  "In  just  two  minutes  you  will  have 
vacated  this  room." 

He  stood,  watch  in  hand,  while  the  crowd,  lowering 
and  muttering,  backed  into  the  street. 

Then  Sergeant  Smith  addressed  the  mob  outside. 

"We  are  officers  of  the  State  Police,"  said  he  slowly, 
clearly,  with  exceeding  directness,  and  showing  his 
badge.  "We  have  arrested  Carey  Morrison,  in  the 
name  of  the  Law.  He  is  wounded  because  he  unlaw- 
fully resisted  arrest.  We  shall  now  take  him  away  to 
jail.  Meantime  you  will  all  quietly  disperse  to  your 
own  homes.  I  give  you  just  ten  minutes  to  get  out  of 
town." 

For  a  moment  the  crowd  stared  at  the  officer  as 
though  weighing  the  echo  of  his  words  —  testing  the 
judgment  of  its  own  ears.  Then  it  began  to  move,  to 
split  apart.  On  the  outskirts  arose  the  rattle  of  wheels, 
diminishing  —  the  lessening  clatter  of  hoofs.  In  ten 
minutes'  time  the  streets  were  clear.  Not  one  of  the 
recent  visitors  remained. 

How  did  it  happen?  Why  did  they  do  it?  Perhaps 


196       THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

they  scarcely  could  have  told,  themselves.  They 
cared  not  a  whit  for  any  law  or  peace  officer  within 
their  ken  —  would  have  thought  nothing  of  taking 
his  life  —  and  they  had  never  before  seen  the  State 
Police. 

But  —  there  lay  Carey  Morrison.  And  they  knew 
the  fate  of  Israel  Drake.  And  this  strange  man,  who 
issued  his  orders  so  sternly,  whose  eyes  were  terrible, 
like  blue  lightning,  and  who  knew  no  fear  at  all  — 
this  strange  man  expected  to  be  obeyed. 

Somehow  they  dared  not  hesitate. 

Since  that  day  there  has  been  a  saying  in  those 
mountains  —  a  saying  with  a  sound  basis  of  truth:  — 

"When  the  State  Police  want  a  man  from  here, 
they  don't  have  to  fetch  him.  They  send  him  a  post- 
card and  he  comes  in." 

The  doctor  got  out  his  two-horse  wagon  to  convey 
the  wounded  outlaw  to  the  hospital  at  Carlisle.  On 
the  road,  they  stopped  at  the  boarding-house  for  the 
Troopers'  effects.  Like  magic  the  entire  settlement 
assembled  to  gaze  upon  its  late  guests  as  men  with  a 
feeling  utterly  new. 

"Why  did  n't  you  say  who  you  were?" 

"So  you  are  State  Troopers!  I  never  guessed!" 

"Well,  you'll  always  be  welcome  in  this  town! 
That's  one  sure  thing!" 

"I'd  like  to  shake  hands  with  you  boys."  "Me 
too ! "  "  And  me ! "  came  the  greetings  from  every  side. 

But  the  school-teacher  beamed  happiest  of  all.  "/ 
knew  they  were  something  remarkable  all  along," 
said  she.  "Didn't  I  tell  you  so?" 


vm 

THE  FARMERS'  BATTLE 

DETER  AMES  had  a  kind  heart.  When  the  social 
-*•  service  worker  from  Pottsville  appeared  to  him 
late  one  afternoon,  in  the  midst  of  silo-filling  time,  and 
asked  for  a  moment's  talk,  he  threw  down  his  pitch- 
fork, left  the  team  standing,  and  gave  her  the  half- 
hour  he  knew  she  really  meant.  With  resignation,  if 
not  with  gladness,  he  gave  it,  and  listened  to  all  that 
she  had  to  say. 

She  said  that  Peter's  farm  was  a  good  one;  that  his 
father  before  him  had  been  a  sound  and  sane  citizen; 
and  had  handed  down  to  his  son  not  only  fruitful 
acres,  but  a  respected  name,  a  solid  place  in  the  com- 
munity. She  said  the  little  hamlet  that  he  lived  in 
was  a  happy  spot,  and  that  Peter  had  always  been 
blessed  in  his  "environment."  And  she  added  that 
Peter's  present  comfortable  condition,  however  much 
he  might  grace  it,  was  less  his  own  creation  than  the 
gift  of  circumstances  with  which  he  had  nothing  to  do. 

To  all  this  Peter  Ames  assented  freely,  as  to  self- 
evident  facts.  "I  know  that  I  have  much  to  be  grate- 
ful for,"  said  he. 

"Then,"  pursued  his  visitor,  "are  you  willing  to 
prove  the  sincerity  of  your  gratitude  by  lending  a 
helping  hand  to  one  of  the  many  who  have  not  en- 
joyed your  advantages  —  who  have  never  had  a  real 
chance?" 


198        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"How  do  you  mean?"  asked  Peter. 

"Why,"  said  she,  "I  have  in  mind  a  young  man 
named  Frank  Mitchell.  He  has  been  rather  wild,  but 
it  was  not  his  fault.  His  parentage  was  unfortunate. 
His  father  was  a  drunkard.  He  had  no  bringing-up 
really  deserving  the  name.  He  got  into  some  little 
trouble  and  was  sentenced  to  a  year  in  the  Peniten- 
tiary, but  they  thought  so  well  of  him  there  that  they 
have  just  liberated  him,  after  eight  months.  Now,  I 
want  to  find  a  good  home  for  him,  where  he  will  live 
under  Christian  family  influences  and  develop  into 
the  fine  man  he  was  meant  to  be.  Mr.  Ames,  will  you 
take  him  into  your  home  as  a  hired  hand?" 

Peter  hesitated.  "I  do  need  help  on  the  farm, 
but  — " 

"Mr.  Ames,  you  say  you  need  help.  Think  how 
marvellously  you  have  been  helped.  And  this  poor 
fellow  —  who  had  ever  helped  him?  Dare  you  re- 
fuse?" 

So  Peter  consented. 

"I  am  sure  you  will  never  regret  it,"  said  the  social 
worker,  as  she  hurried  away.  "And  he  is  such  a  nice- 
looking  young  man,  too,  —  only  about  twenty-four 
years  old,  nearly  six  feet  tall,  strong  and  wiry,  clear 
red  cheeks,  and  so  boyish-looking!  You'll  like  him  at 


once." 


The  next  day  Frank  Mitchell  appeared. 

In  silo-filling  season  no  farmer  has  tune  to  con- 
sider aught  but  the  heavy  manual  labor  of  the  hour. 
After  that  comes  the  threshing;  then  the  orchard 
work;  then  a  dozen  vital  matters  that  refuse  to 
wait  for  any  man's  convenience.  So  September  and 


THE  FARMERS'  BATTLE          199 

October  hurried  away,  and  half  of  November  had  al- 
ready followed  them  before  Peter  Ames  had  leisure  to 
notice  in  the  newcomer  much  more  than  a  pair  of 
hands. 

During  all  this  period,  however,  young  Mitchell 
had  lived  in  the  farmhouse,  and  had  fulfilled  his  duties 
as  well  as  could  be  expected  of  an  inexperienced  man. 
Because  of  his  youth,  and  because  of  the  words  of  the 
social  worker,  Mrs.  Ames  had  taken  a  special  interest 
in  him,  as  had  her  mother,  Mrs.  Bolton,  who  shared 
her  daughter's  home.  Both  women  were  pleasant, 
kindly,  warm-hearted  folk,  of  the  type  that  is  meant 
by  "the  salt  of  the  earth,"  and  both  did  their  whole- 
some best  to  make  the  young  man  feel  that  no  shadow 
of  prison  bars  or  of  any  other  sinister  thing  beclouded 
him  in  their  eyes. 

So  came  the  16th  of  November.  All  the  morning 
was  showery  or  lowering.  Uncomfortably  the  two 
men  worked  between  downpours,  as  best  they  could. 
After  dinner  a  steady  rain  began. 

"This  is  for  good,"  said  Peter  Ames.  "We  may  as 
well  quit.  I'll  hitch  up  and  drive  over  to  Orwigsburg 
to  do  my  trading.  And  you,  Frank,  you  can  mend  the 
double  harness  the  way  I  showed  you.  Take  the  stuff 
over  to  the  house,  where  you'll  be  comfortable.  It's 
getting  awful  raw!" 

Half  an  hour  later  Peter  drove  out  of  the  barnyard 
in  his  buggy,  jogging  away  down  the  leafless  maple 
alley  into  the  gray  of  the  rain  and  the  mud,  while 
Mitchell  with  his  armful  of  harness  started  for  the 
house. 

Mrs.  Ames,  comely  and  motherly,  sat  in  her  spot- 


200        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

less  kitchen,  shelling  corn.  Pink  geraniums  bloomed 
in  the  white-curtained  windows,  and  a  pot  of  "four- 
o'clocks"  covered  with  crimson  flowers.  Braided  rag 
rugs  made  the  floor  gay  with  their  checkered  rings  of 
black  and  yellow,  white  and  purple  and  red.  The 
doors  of  the  wooden  cupboards  smiled  with  painted 
posies,  and  behind  the  shiny  glass  fronts  of  the  dress- 
ers the  old  blue  dishes  stood  in  rows.  The  tea-kettle 
sang  on  the  clean  black  stove,  and  over  on  the  table 
with  the  lozenged  cloth  stood  a  pan  of  fresh  doughnuts, 
and  a  plate  of  rosy  apples  and  winter  pears. 

Across  the  threshold,  in  the  sitting-room,  Mrs. 
Bolton  sat  sewing  on  a  patchwork  quilt.  She  rocked 
cheerfully  as  her  fingers  dealt  with  multi-colored 
scraps  of  calico,  and  between  fragments  of  talk  with 
her  daughter  she  sang  bits  of  hymns  in  a  sweet  old 
voice  that  cracked  a  little  now  and  again  on  its  high 
notes.  Her  hair  was  snowy  white,  but  over  her  steel- 
bowed  spectacles  looked  out  a  pair  of  eyes  as  blue  as 
a  girl's  and  full  of  gentle  goodness. 

Frank  Mitchell  was  crossing  the  barnyard  on  his 
way  to  the  house.  Mrs.  Ames,  from  her  seat  by  the 
kitchen  table,  saw  his  approach. 

"Frank's  coming  in,"  she  said  to  the  elder  woman. 
"I  guess  Father's  told  him  to  bring  his  work  inside. 
Grandma,  how  do  you  feel  about  that  boy  now?  I'm 
real  hopeful  myself.  Seems  to  me  if  we  treat  him  like 
our  own  he  can't  help  being  good.  This  corn  is  lovely ! 
Just  look  what  a  big  ear  here  is!" 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Bolton,  "I  don't  see  why  he 
should  n't  be  good.  Your  father  always  said  a  man 
was  like  his  thoughts,  and  surely  that  boy  has  enough 


THE  FARMERS'  BATTLE         201 

good  things  to  fill  his  mind  with  now.  There  he  goes, 
through  the  woodshed." 

"I'll  call  him  in,"  said  her  daughter,  and,  taking 
her  milk-pan  under  her  arm,  she  opened  the  outer 
door. 

"Frank!"  she  called.  "Come  inside.  Bring  your 
work  into  the  kitchen.  You  can  sit  right  here  by  the 
stove.  That's  right.  Put  your  things  on  this  other 
chair.  There !  Now  you  '11  be  comfortable,  won't  you? 
Take  a  doughnut  before  you  sit  down.  The  rain's 
getting  worse,  is  n't  it?  I  do  hope  Father '11  get  home 
in  good  time  for  supper!  It's  dark  so  early  and  the 
roads  must  be  all  a  muck." 

But  Peter  Ames  could  not  finish  his  business  at  Or- 
wigsburg  as  soon  as  he  had  hoped.  When  he  started 
for  home  it  was  already  dark.  Not  until  after  half 
after  six  o'clock  did  he  reach  the  outer  end  of  the 
double  row  of  maples  that  led  to  his  house. 

"An  hour  late  to  supper,"  thought  Peter,  "and  on 
such  a  night!  The  old  mare  and  I  won't  shy  at  our 
victuals  this  time,  neither  one  of  us!" 

Then,  through  the  haze  of  bare  branches,  he  caught 
sight  of  the  house,  a  blot  on  the  thinner  darkness  of 
the  sky.  All  the  windows  were  black. 

"No  lights!  Where  can  Mother  be?"  marvelled 
Peter  to  himself.  "Where  can  Mother  be  gone,  and 
Grandma,  too?  .  .  .  and  a  night  like  this!  .  .  .  Must 
have  been  awful  serious,  whatever  it  was,  to  take 
them  out  and  me  not  home!  .  .  .  Maybe  some  neigh- 
bor's sick  and  Frank's  had  to  hitch  up  and  carry 
them  over  in  a  hurry.  Reckon  I'll  find  a  note  on  the 
kitchen  table." 


202        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Peter  had  driven  into  the  barn,  by  now,  and  the 
light  of  his  axle-tree  lantern  was  falling  along  the  old 
brown  floor,  catching  on  the  cobwebs  under  the  loft- 
beams,  showing  points  and  parts  of  familiar  objects 
like  hands  of  old  friends  reaching  out  of  the  dark. 
A  speckled  hen  sleepily  complained  from  her  perch 
on  a  wagon-pole.  Up  at  the  far  end  four  brown  noses, 
thrust  over  their  mangers,  whinnied  eagerly  at  the 
master's  approach. 

"Nickering!  Then  they  haven't  been  watered 
yet!"  exclaimed  Peter.  "Old  mare,  I  won't  wait  to 
unharness  you  now.  Let  me  make  sure,  first,  what 
all  this  means." 

He  flung  a  blanket  over  the  dripping  horse,  and 
hurried  to  the  house. 

Opening  the  kitchen  door  into  the  thick,  black, 
silence  of  the  room,  he  paused  a  moment,  listening. 
Then  he  shuffled  across,  felt  for  the  matches  on  the 
mantelpiece,  lighted  the  candle  that  always  stood 
ready  there,  and  turned  to  look  about. 

The  room  was  empty.  There  was  no  note  on  the 
table.  There  was  no  sign  of  supper  prepared.  And 
this  last  fact  in  particular  filled  him  with  vague  fore- 
bodings. Never  had  his  wife  forgotten  his  comfort. 
Never  did  she  withhold  her  first  thought  and  care 
from  the  comfort  of  his  house.  An  unreasoning  chill 
crept  over  him  like  a  fog. 

Something  crunched  beneath  his  foot.  He  stooped, 
holding  the  candle  low  to  see  what  that  thing  had 
been.  A  grain  of  corn.  Beyond,  much  corn  lay  scat- 
tered over  the  floor,  and  against  the  wall  stood  a  milk- 
pan,  balanced  eccentrically  as  though  it  had  fallen 


THE  FARMERS'  BATTLE          203 

and  rolled  there,  with  yet  a  few  yellow  kernels  lying 
in  its  rim. 

Peter  stood  up  and  again  looked  about  him  fear- 
fully. 

"Mother!"  he  exclaimed,  half -unconsciously  call- 
ing beneath  his  breath. 

Then  he  moved  into  the  sitting-room.  Nothing 
unusual  there,  unless  it  were  the  litter  of  patchwork 
pieces  lying  over  the  carpet  before  the  chair  that 
Mrs.  Bolton  was  wont  to  use. 

"But  Grandma  never  leaves  things  in  a  muss!" 
he  said  to  himself  protestingly,  and  went  on  toward 
the  hall  and  the  stairs. 

His  foot  was  already  on  the  lowest  step  when  he 
noticed,  on  the  floor,  a  long,  dark  stain  following  the 
channels  of  the  matting  in  thick  and  glossy  lines. 
Again  he  held  his  candle  low.  The  stain  led  to  a  black 
thing  lying  shapeless  in  the  shadow  of  the  newel-post. 
He  went  to  it,  laid  his  hand  upon  it,  fell  on  his  knees 
by  its  side. 

"Grandma!"  he  cried.  "Who  did  it  to  you?  Oh, 
Grandma,  speak!  It  is  Peter,  Peter.  Can't  you 
hear?" 

But  the  white  head,  as  he  lifted  her,  fell  back,  inert. 
The  hand  that  he  thrust  over  her  heart  found  no 
life  and  when  he  withdrew  it,  it  was  red  with  blood. 
Clutched  in  her  right  hand  was  a  carving-knife.  Its 
long  steel  blade  seemed  to  flash  a  tale  that  the  dead 
lips  could  not  speak.  But  as  yet  Peter  Ames  missed 
its  message. 

Gently  he  laid  her  back  on  the  floor.  It  could  not 
hurt  her  now  to  wait  a  few  moments  longer  there. 


204        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Nothing  could  ever  hurt  her  again.  And  he  must 
know  what  was  above. 

As  fast  as  his  fear-stricken  body  would  carry  him, 
he  mounted  the  stairs,  and  made  straight  for  the 
square  south  chamber,  his  own  room.  The  room  was 
in  wild  confusion.  The  drawers  of  the  bureau  yawned 
wide,  their  contents  scattered  abroad;  the  wardrobe 
door  was  swung  open,  the  floor  covered  with  clothes. 
On  top  of  the  bed  a  great  feather-bed  had  been  cast 
in  a  heap,  and  its  striped  ticking,  billowing  awkwardly, 
gave  the  last  touch  of  madness  to  an  unheard-of  scene. 

Peter  stood  gazing  around  him  in  a  stupor.  His 
world  was  gone  from  under  his  feet.  He  reeled  in 
space. 

"Mother!"  he  cried,  half  unwittingly,  as  he  had 
done  before.  "Mother!" 

Then  he  fancied  he  heard  a  moan.  Again  it  came. 
Peter  dashed  at  the  bed,  seized  the  mountainous 
feather-bed  and  flung  it  away.  There  lay  his  wife, 
unconscious,  with  a  wound  on  her  head.  Her  arms 
were  bound  tight  to  her  body  by  turn  on  turn  of 
leather  straps. 

Even  in  his  agony  Peter  looked  again  at  those 
straps.  They  were  his  double  harness  reins. 

Perhaps  an  hour  elapsed  before  Peter  Ames  took 
thought  of  anything  but  his  own.  Then,  snatching 
his  telephone,  he  called  up  the  Justice  of  the  Peace. 
And  the  Justice  of  the  Peace,  as  quickly  as  he  could 
get  the  connection,  informed  the  State  Police  at  Potts- 
ville  Barracks,  fourteen  miles  away,  of  what  had 
occurred. 


AGAIN  HE  HELD  HIS  CANDLE  LOW 


THE  FARMERS'  BATTLE         205 

Now  it  happened  that  at  that  moment  the  force  at 
Pottsville  was  very  small.  Captain  Adams,  then  com- 
manding the  Troop,  was  absent  on  duty.  Between  sub- 
station details  and  details  on  urgent  special  cases,  not  a 
single  old  enlisted  man  remained  in  Barracks  for  field 
service.  Lieutenant  Mair  and  First  Sergeant  McCall 
were  making  shift  to  handle  the  work  with  the  aid  of 
a  few  raw  recruits,  as  best  they  might.  And  so,  when 
the  Justice's  message  came  in,  nothing  remained  for 
it  but  that  the  Lieutenant  himself  should  go  to  the 
scene  of  the  crime. 

With  six  recruits  he  presented  himself  at  Peter 
Ames's  door  as  quickly  as  the  distance  could  be 
covered.  Mrs.  Ames  was  still  unconscious,  but  con- 
ditions told  their  own  story,  and  Peter's  theory  that 
Frank  Mitchell  was  the  author  of  the  havoc  in  his 
home  seemed  sound.  Securing  the  best  description 
of  Mitchell  that  the  distracted  farmer  could  give,  and 
determining  as  closely  as  possible  the  hour  at  which 
the  crimes  had  been  done,  Lieutenant  Mair  now  set 
out  to  search  the  modes  of  egress  from  the  place. 

From  a  tower-man  down  the  railroad  line  he  pres- 
ently learned  that  a  youth  answering  the  description 
of  Mitchell,  and  carrying  a  suitcase,  had  been  seen 
that  evening  walking  the  track  toward  Port  Clinton, 
the  station  next  to  the  south. 

Telephoning  the  railway  agent  of  Port  Clinton, 
Lieutenant  Mair  found  that  such  a  man  had  bought 
a  ticket  to  Reading  and  had  just  taken  the  train  in 
that  direction.  Instantly,  therefore,  the  Lieutenant 
telephoned  the  railway  police  at  Reading,  requesting 
that  they  watch  the  arrival  of  the  train,  arrest  the 


206       THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

man,  and  hold  him  prisoner  for  the  coming  of  a  State 
Police  officer. 

Then  he  waited  for  news  of  the  capture,  which 
should  be  sure. 

Meantime  First  Sergeant  John  McCall  sat  at  his 
desk  in  Pottsville  Barracks.  First  Sergeant  McCall 
had  honorably  served  his  country  in  the  Fourth  United 
States  Cavalry.  Later,  in  the  Seventh  Cavalry,  he 
had  fought  the  Indians  in  the  grim  Drexel  Mission 
affair,  and  again,  in  Arizona,  among  multitudinous 
adventures,  he  had  faced  the  hostile  Apache  chiefs. 
As  a  member  of  the  Sixth  United  States  Infantry,  he 
had  gone  through  the  business  of  San  Juan  Hill  from 
start  to  finish,  and  after  that  had  done  his  share  in 
many  a  hot  engagement  with  the  insurgents  in  the 
Philippines.  Often  had  he  been  wounded  in  battle. 
Twice  he  had  received  honorable  mention  for  saving 
the  lives  of  comrades.  But,  although  he  joined  the 
Force  at  its  beginning,  now  years  gone  by,  no  one  had 
ever  heard  him  speak  of  these  things.  In  fact,  his 
voice  was  so  rarely  heard  on  any  topic  whatever  that 
throughout  the  Squadron  he  was  known  as  "Silent 
John." 

And  now,  by  a  whim  of  Fate,  it  was  Silent  John 
and  no  other  who  perforce  must  talk  all  night! 

Silent  John  sat  at  the  telephone  collecting  and  dis- 
tributing information,  methodically  centralizing  the 
work.  And  so  it  was  on  his  ears  that  fell  the  familiar 
voice  of  the  Lieutenant,  irately  lamenting,  as  the 
clock  marked  a  quarter  to  ten. 

The  Lieutenant  spoke  from  a  tower-house,  some- 
where down  the  line. 


THE  FARMERS'  BATTLE          207 

"He's  slipped  through  the  railway  police!  You 
know  the  Reading  Station  —  sort  of  triangle.  Three 
platforms.  Too  much  of  a  puzzle,  I  suppose.  Any- 
way, they  missed  him.  And  they  say  he  was  n't  on 
the  train.  But  I  know  he  was.  I  know  he's  in  Read- 
ing now.  The  next  thing  along  is  a  coal  freight.  I'll 
get  the  tower-man  to  flag  it,  and  go  down  on  that. 
The  first  passenger  train  won't  pull  in  there  before 
dawn,  and  he  might  get  away  ahead  of  it." 

"Right,  sir,"  said  the  First  Sergeant. 

Then  he  went  on  telephoning,  picking  up  here  a 
thread,  and  there  a  thread,  matching,  selecting,  cast- 
ing aside.  As  soon  as  the  Lieutenant  should  have 
reached  Reading  he  would  give  him  his  latest  glean- 
ings. Also,  in  receiving  from  each  man  on  the  job 
prompt  reports  of  all  discoveries,  he  would  keep  each 
man  continually  informed  of  the  changing  status  of 
affairs.  Scientifically,  methodically,  he  ordered  his 
work,  like  a  chess-player,  cool  and  far-sighted. 

Meantime,  by  due  progress  of  freight,  Lieutenant 
Mair,  with  his  green  recruits,  was  moving  on  Reading. 
The  lads  were  on  tiptoe  to  do  the  right  thing  and  to 
do  it  handsomely,  but  alas!  they  had  no  experience. 
An  old  Trooper  needs  merely  to  be  told  the  general 
object  desired.  His  officer  can  then  entrust  the  mat- 
ter to  his  care,  knowing  that  the  task  will  be  done 
well  and  wisely.  But  the  recruit  must  be  guided  step 
by  step,  lest  his  judgment,  betraying  him,  reflect 
discredit  on  the  Force.  So,  working  in  the  field  with 
recruits  is  a  slow  and  painful  process. 

In  the  black  and  splintery  depths  of  the  jolting 
freight-car  the  Lieutenant  therefore  endeavored  to 


208        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

save  what  time  he  could.  Sitting  on  a  nail-keg,  he  de- 
livered a  practical  lecture  to  the  wide-eyed  youngsters, 
revealed  by  high  lights  only,  in  the  dismal  ray  of  a 
train-hand's  lamp. 

"Remember  this,"  "Never  do  that,"  and,  "In  such 
a  case  do  so,"  he  was  still  adjuring  them  when  the 
train  lumbered  into  the  Reading  yard. 

"Where  in  Sam  Hill  did  you  come  from?"  asked 
the  officer  on  duty  at  the  Reading  City  Police  Sta- 
tion, sitting  up  with  a  jerk  and  rubbing  his  sleepy 
eyes. 

"Just  got  in  from  the  north." 

"Just  got  in!  What  time  is  it?"  He  peered  at 
the  clock.  "Half -past  twelve.  Why,  there  ain't  no 
south-bound  train  this  time  o'  night.  What  d'  you 
mean?" 

"Came  down  on  a  freight." 

"On  a  freight!  Well,  I '11  be  jiggered!  What's  the 
matter  with  you  fellers,  anyway?  Ain't  passenger 
trams  good  enough  for  you?  " 

"It  happens  I  want  to  catch  a  criminal  you've  got 
down  here,"  said  the  Lieutenant,  grinning. 

"Oh,  shucks!"  fumed  the  other,  obscurely  irri- 
tated. "Ain't  there  criminals  enough  and  plenty,  to 
hunt  in  a  reasonable,  business-like  way,  as  nature  in- 
tended, without  your  rushing  around  in  the  middle 
of  the  night?  You  put  me  in  mind  of  a  lot  of  cock- 
roaches, hanged  if  you  don't!" 

But  when  the  Reading  police  heard  in  detail  from 
the  Lieutenant's  lips  what  had  happened  in  the  farm- 
house to  the  north  only  six  hours  ago,  they  aroused  to 


THE  FARMERS'  BATTLE          209 

an  interest  that  they  had  not  felt  before.  And  they 
started  out  with  a  will  to  help  the  Troopers  comb 
the  town  for  the  missing  man. 

And  all  this  time  First  Sergeant  John  McCall  sat 
talking,  talking,  talking  over  his  telephone ! 

Most  of  the  points  that  he  determined  were  nega- 
tive in  nature.  Yet,  by  elimination,  they  narrowed 
the  field.  The  telephone  girls  over  three  counties,  all 
eagerness  to  help,  were  doing  yeoman's  service  in  the 
many  ways  in  their  power,  by  accurate  relay  work, 
by  rapid  connecting.  Therefore,  when  Lieutenant 
Mair  called  up  his  Barracks,  just  before  starting  out 
with  the  Reading  police,  First  Sergeant  McCall  had 
a  sheaf  in  hand. 

One  possibility  he  reported  as  definitely  cut  off, 
another  idea  as  cancelled,  certain  important  facts 
as  established,  the  physical  description  of  the  man 
cleared  up  and  made  positive. 

"And,  Lieutenant,"  finished  "Silent  John,"  "I 
find  that  when  this  Mitchell,  alias  Christock,  did  his 
time  in  the  Penitentiary,  he  had  for  a  cell-mate  a 
man  named  Fogarty." 

"All  right.   Good-bye." 

Then  the  Lieutenant  started  in,  with  the  aid  of  the 
Reading  city  force,  to  search  the  town.  They  went 
through  the  cheap  lodging-houses  and  found  nothing. 
They  sifted  the  cheap  hotels,  with  like  result.  They 
ransacked  the  saloons,  the  livery-stables,  the  dives 
and  dens  in  vain. 

"He 's  not  in  this  city,"  said  the  Reading  men.  "He 
never  came,  or  else  he's  gone  on." 

One  by  one  they  gave  up  the  hunt  —  went  back 


210        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

to  their  sleep,  until  only  a  single  pair  remained  on 
the  search. 

But  from  this  pair  presently  came  happy  news: 

"  We  have  the  man." 

Lieutenant  Mair  hurried  to  the  jail  to  inspect  the 
prisoner. 

"We  picked  him  up  in  the  freight-yard,  asleep  in 
an  empty,"  said  one  captor  proudly. 

But  the  Lieutenant  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  be- 
lieve he's  Frank  Mitchell,"  said  he;  "  the  description 
does  n't  quite  fit." 

"Oh,  it  fits  as  near  as  they  ever  do,"  said  the  city 
officer.  "We'll  keep  this  fellow,  anyway.  And  if  he 
is  n't  your  man,  then,  take  it  from  me,  your  man 
isn't  in  Reading.  Now  let's  all  quit  for  to-night. 
We've  done  enough." 

"What  is  Frank  Mitchell  wanted  for?"  ventured 
the  white-faced  prisoner  whom  the  description  too 
nearly  fitted. 

"For  larceny,  murder,  and  rape,"  answered  the 
Lieutenant  laconically,  as  he  went  out  alone  into  the 
night. 

He  had  posted  his  recruits  at  certain  points  that 
must  be  watched.  Those  recruits,  every  one  of  them, 
must  stick  to  their  posts.  That  left  him  single-handed 
to  find  the  man  whom  he  still  unshakenly  believed  to 
be  in  the  city  of  Reading.  But,  even  though  single- 
handed,  find  him  he  must  and  would.  By  what  means 
he  did  not  yet  know.  Only  the  event  was  determined : 
He  was  going  to  find  that  man  before  he  slept. 

It  was  half  after  three  o'clock.  Still  a  little  while  be- 
fore the  earliest  risers  would  be  stirring.  This  was  his 


THE  FARMERS'  BATTLE 

precious  hour.  He  lingered  a  moment  in  the  shadow 
of  the  jail  stoop,  inwardly  debating  his  next  move. 
It  must  be  the  best  move,  the  most  sagacious,  a  win- 
ner. He  had  no  time  to  make  mistakes!  Should  it 
be  thus  —  or  thus? 

And  then  something  that  for  a  long  minute  had 
been  softly  speaking  to  his  other  mind,  cried  suddenly 
aloud,  "Listen  to  me!" 

It  was  the  sound  of  a  sharp  step,  not  like  other 
steps.  It  was  approaching  on  the  side  street,  and 
there  was  that  in  its  firm,  crisp  ring,  through  the  si- 
lence of  the  small  hours,  that  bit  like  bright  steel  on 
the  city's  soft  background. 

The  Lieutenant's  inner  vision  was  already  shout- 
ing hurrah  and  swinging  its  hat.  The  Lieutenant's 
sage  mentality  was  laboriously  waiting  to  know.  The 
Lieutenant's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  street  corner  with 
an  eagerness  that  almost  hurt. 

The  crisp  tread  reached  the  corner,  —  turned  in,  — 
and  Sergeant  Edward  Hallisey ,  late  Thirteenth  United 
States  Cavalry,  tried  old  Trooper  of  the  Force,  stood 
at  salute  beneath  the  jail  lamp. 

"How  did  this  happen?"  exclaimed  the  Lieuten- 
ant, out  of  a  glad  heart. 

"Sergeant  McCall  picked  me  up  by  telephone  and 
sent  me  in,  sir." 

"Well,  now  I  know  we'll  get  that  man  to-night!" 

They  held  a  brief  council  together.  Hallisey  was 
an  excellent  detective,  and  the  Lieutenant  wanted 
the  benefit  of  his  mind.  So  he  gave  him  a  resume  of 
all  that  had  been  done. 

"There's  one  thing  that  hasn't  been  done  —  we 


THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

have  n't  tried  the  hotels  of  the  better  grade.  There 
might  be  a  chance  there,"  he  concluded. 

"Well,"  said  Hallisey,  "on  the  surface,  I'd  say 
no.  But  this  fellow  stole  a  fairish  bit  of  money.  He 
feels  flush.  It's  been  one  of  his  dreams,  maybe,  to 
blow  in  cash  in  a  real  hotel.  I  'd  say  it 's  worth  trying." 

So  the  two  started  out  to  make  the  round  of  Read- 
ing's resorts  of  the  kind  in  question.  The  first  place 
visited  proved  a  blank,  in  so  far  as  the  search  could 
be  carried.  The  second  gave  the  same  result.  It  was 
impossible,  of  course,  to  disturb  the  guests  in  their 
rooms  —  to  force  a  general  entry,  at  such  an  hour, 
and  upon  such  an  occasion.  But  the  night  clerks 
themselves,  in  each  instance,  were  positive  that  no 
one  even  remotely  conforming  to  Frank  Mitchell's 
description  had  registered  in  their  books. 

At  the  third  stop,  the  City  Hotel,  the  proprietor 
himself  was  on  duty.  Like  the  others,  he  also  de- 
clared that  no  one  resembling  Mitchell  had  come  to 
his  house.  But  Lieutenant  Mair  was  dissatisfied. 

"This  is  far  too  good  a  place  for  a  laborer  to  think 
of,"  said  he  to  Hallisey,  "but,  as  you  said,  that  might 
be  exactly  the  reason  for  his  coming  here.  And  hotel 
men  are  not  all  close  observers.  Maybe  this  one,  for 
instance,  could  n't  accurately  describe  a  single  guest 
now  in  the  house." 

He  stood  looking  at  the  proprietor  with  knitted 
brows. 

"Let  me  see  your  register,"  he  evolved. 

The  other  whirled  the  book  around. 

"George  Devons,  Alexander  O'Neill,  Mrs.  John 
Martin  and  daughter,  Follmer,  Fogarty,  Flanahan, 


THE  FARMERS'  BATTLE          213 

Stillwell,  Baker,  Tice,  Snell,  McCune"  —  the  Lieu- 
tenant ran  down  the  names  aloud.  "That's  all  that 
have  come  in  this  evening?" 

"And  nobody  at  all  like  the  man  you  describe, 
either,"  added  the  hotel-keeper  decidedly. 

But  the  Lieutenant  was  back  again  staring  at  the 
page. 

"Fogarty,"  murmured  he — "Fogarty —  where 
does  that  name  come  in?' 

Then  it  came  back  to  him  —  in  the  voice  of  First 
Sergeant  McCall  —  "When  Mitchell  did  his  time  in 
the  Penitentiary  he  had  for  a  cell-mate  a  man  named 
Fogarty."  . 

Something  in  the  Lieutenant's  mind  suddenly 
snapped  shut.  He  turned  to  his  Sergeant  with  an  air 
of  unaccountable  finality. 

"Hallisey,"  said  he,  "we've  got  him." 

And  then,  to  the  proprietor,  "When  did  Fogarty 
arrive?" 

"A  little  after  nine  o'clock,  and  registered,  and  had 
supper,  and  went  out.  Then  he  came  in  at  about 
eleven  and  went  to  bed.  By  the  way,  he  left  word  to 
be  called  at  four-thirty." 

"I  would  like  to  go  up  and  take  a  look  at  him." 

"Why,  sure.  Go  ahead.  Third  floor,  room  301." 

The  Lieutenant  knocked  at  the  door.  Not  a  sound 
within.  Again  a  knock,  this  time  followed  by  a  creak 
of  the  bed  and  a  scuffling.  Waiting  for  nothing  more, 
the  two  officers  put  their  shoulders  to  the  door  — 
burst  it  open.  Their  man  stood  before  them. 

He  was  snatching  his  overcoat  down  from  its  hook, 
with  one  hand  fumbling  for  the  pocket.  Hallisey's 


214        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

grip  closed  over  his  wrist  just  as  he  seized  the  object 
of  his  search  —  his  revolver. 

Three  hours  later,  in  the  jail,  Mitchell  had  made 
his  full  confession,  which  he  signed  before  a  city 
alderman  and  seven  witnesses.  In  it  he  related  at 
length  his  deeds  of  the  afternoon  before.  Wrth  the 
greatest  coolness  he  described  how,  sitting  in  the 
pleasant  kitchen  near  the  kindly  farmer's  wife,  he 
had  suddenly  sprung  up,  thrown  over  her  head  the 
long  leather  reins  that  he  was  mending  and  bound  her 
arms  tight  to  her  body;  how  then,  because  she  strug- 
gled, he  had  struck  her  on  the  forehead  with  his 
heavy  harness  punch  till  she  lost  consciousness;  how 
he  had  lifted  the  senseless  woman  in  his  arms,  and  was 
starting  up  the  stairs  with  her,  when  her  old  white- 
haired  mother  came  tottering  at  him  with  the  carv- 
ing-knife in  her  hand;  how  he  had  dropped  his  burden 
long  enough  to  seize  the  shotgun  that  always  stood 
on  the  stairs,  and  to  kill  the  mother  with  a  charge 
through  her  heart;  how  he  had  then  gone  on  upstairs, 
thrown  the  woman  hastily  on  her  own  bed,  descended 
again  to  lock  the  house,  and  so,  at  his  leisure,  had 
ransacked  it  for  money  and  valuables;  how  he  had 
then  returned  to  the  south  chamber,  covering  his 
victim  with  the  feather-bed  from  her  mother's  room, 
lest  she  regain  her  senses  and  scream,  and  had  made 
his  exit  in  the  manner  known;  how  in  Reading,  after 
a  good  supper  at  the  hotel,  he  had  spent  an  agreeable 
evening  at  the  movies,  and  had  then  gone  quietly 
back  to  bed  and  that  sound  sleep  from  which  the 
Troopers  aroused  him.  He  had  intended  rising  before 


THE  FARMERS'  BATTLE         215 

dawn,  hiring  a  motor  with  some  of  his  loot,  and  get- 
ting away  tracklessly  in  the  dark,  before  search  should 
begin  for  him. 

As  Lieutenant  Mair  was  walking  down  the  jail  cor- 
ridor after  having  seen  Mitchell  safely  behind  bolt 
and  bar,  a  timid  voice  called  from  one  of  the  deten- 
tion cells. 

"Captain!  Please,  did  you  get  Frank  Mitchell?" 

It  was  the  suspect  found  asleep  in  the  "empty" 
the  night  before. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Lieutenant  kindly.  "We've 
got  him.  I  knew  you  were  n't  Mitchell,  did  n't  I?" 

"Oh,  praise  be  to  God,"  cried  the  prisoner.  "I 
never  was  as  wicked  as  that!" 

Then,  snatching  at  the  Lieutenant's  sleeve,  he  be- 
gan pouring  out  the  confession  of  all  the  shortcomings 
of  his  life.  His  name  was  Edward  Hare.  He  had  been 
something  of  a  thief,  both  of  money  and  of  goods. 
He  had  robbed  his  employer.  He  had  committed  a 
burglary  for  whose  author  the  State  Police  had  been 
searching  for  the  last  two  years.  But  he  had  spent 
those  two  years  in  Nova  Scotia,  and  was  on  his  way 
home  only  last  night.  He  had  thought  himself  safe 
in  returning  after  so  long  an  eclipse,  and  had  ex- 
pected to  escape  the  penalty  of  his  wrong-doings. 
But  now  the  black  shadow  of  Mitchell's  sins,  touch- 
ing him  so  ominously,  so  close,  had  changed  his  whole 
thought.  His  only  desire  was  to  tell  all  that  he  knew 
—  to  rejoice  that  he  had  escaped  that  awful  pit  — 
to  wipe  his  slate  clean  —  and  gladly  to  take  the 
lesser  punishment  that  he  had  earned. 

So  Edward  Hare  went  to  the  Reformatory. 


216        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

On  November  25th,  nine  days  from  the  day  of  his 
crimes,  Frank  Mitchell,  found  guilty  of  larceny,  rape, 
and  murder  hi  the  first  degree,  was  sentenced  to  be 
hanged.  His  sentence  was  duly  and  promptly  exe- 
cuted according  to  the  law.  The  whole  thing  was 
done  and  away  so  quickly  that  even  the  newspapers 
had  scarcely  time  to  debate  it.  Neither  room  nor  oc- 
casion was  left  for  the  rehearsal  of  miserable  details 
nor  for  protracted  argument  of  the  case.  The  public 
mind  was  spared  that  poisoning.  The  public  treasury 
was  saved  from  cost.  The  criminal  class  received  a 
lesson  of  the  type  that  strikes  deepest  to  its  core. 
And  the  farmer  folk  of  Schuylkill  County  once  more 
with  gratitude  and  thanksgiving  acknowledged  their 
debt  to  their  best  friends. 

Once  more  the  State  Police,  faithfully  working 
while  others  slept,  had  fought  and  won  the  farmers' 
battle. 


IX 

CHERRY  VALLEY 

was  early  in  the  Force's  history  —  so  early 
that  as  yet  no  sub-station  of  State  Police  had  ever 
been  planted  in  Washington  County. 

Captain  Pitcher,  commanding  "A"  Troop,  was 
now  about  to  place  one  there,  and,  in  reviewing  the 
territory,  had  selected  Burgettstown  as  the  location 
for  the  new  outpost.  Burgettstown,  close  to  the  Ohio 
line,  lies  some  sixty  miles  from  the  Troop's  home 
barracks. 

Sergeant  Charles  Jacobs,  late  Third  United  States 
Cavalry,  Private  Gjertsen,  late  Corporal  of  United 
States  Marine,  and  two  other  Troopers,  composed 
the  new  detail.  On  sending  the  men  off  the  Captain 
made  them  a  farewell  speech.  That  speech,  for  him, 
was  a  long  one,  yet  every  word  of  it  carved  its  indeli- 
ble mark;  just  as  Captain  Pitcher  himself,  through 
twelve  long  years  of  splendid  service,  has  carved 
his  indelible  mark  upon  the  gratitude  of  the  State  of 
Pennsylvania. 

"You  men  have  to  make  good  in  that  country," 
he  said.  "You  are  going  to  establish  a  name  for  the 
Force.  Do  your  full  duty.  Get  what  you  go  for. 
Keep  every  act  above  criticism.  And  never  'start  any- 
thing' first  " 

Burgettstown  is  a  typical  farming  community  — 
quiet,  orderly,  prosperous,  and  as  vulnerable  as  an 
oyster  without  its  shell.  The  Constable  of  Burgetts- 


218        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

town  was  seventy  years  old,  and,  although  far  from 
well-preserved,  his  quavering  strength  would  yet 
have  sufficed  for  all  the  home-bred  needs  of  the  baili- 
wick. But,  as  it  happened,  the  real  needs  of  Burgetts- 
town  were  not  home-bred  at  all. 

There  was  Cherry  Valley,  for  example,  only  four 
short  miles  away. 

Cherry  Valley  was  the  central  point  in  a  circle  of 
mining  plants.  It  possessed  their  one  and  only  store 
—  a  Company  Store;  it  had  some  places  of  dubious 
amusement.  It  had  also  a  large  and  bad  negro  ele- 
ment, mingled  with  that  sort  of  white  stock  that  will 
so  mix. 

Cherry  Valley,  by  its  own  proud  word,  was  a 
"tough  proposition,"  and  from  its  toughness  ema- 
nated a  considerable  part  of  Burgettstown's  woes. 
They  ranged  from  chicken-stealing  and  drunken 
Sunday  sprees  to  the  firing  of  haystacks  and  barns, 
thefts  of  crops,  and  attacks  upon  women  in  lonely 
places.  And  no  local  means  of  protection  of  which 
Burgettstown  was  endowed  operated  against  them  in 
the  slightest  degree. 

Yet  these  things  had  become  so  much  a  part  of 
Burgettstown's  daily  life  as  to  be  accepted  more  or 
less  like  the  weather  that  Providence  is  pleased  to 
send,  on  a  par  with  the  discipline  of  a  world  of  trav- 
ail and  sojourning,  to  be  borne  with  resignation  and 
to  be  taken  as  they  came. 

Burgettstown,  as  yet,  had  no  personal  knowledge 
of  the  power  and  purpose  of  a  State  Police,  and  in  so 
far  as  it  substituted  surmise  for  experience,  its  sur- 
mise ran  that  the  Force  must  be  simply  a  new-fangled 


YOU  MEN  HAVE  TO  MAKE  GOOD  IN  THAT  COUNTRY" 


CHERRY  VALLEY  219 

avenue  of  graft,  a  creation  of  costly,  arrogant  use- 
lessness.  The  farmers,  therefore,  in  their  farmers' 
scepticism  as  to  all  new  things,  held  aloof  and  looked 
askance. 

So  it  happened  that  the  first  applicant  for  help  to 
approach  the  sub-station  door  was  a  very  humble 
one,  indeed.  It  was  a  poor,  harmless  old  negro,  who, 
by  some  mischance,  had  incurred  the  wrath  of  one 
of  the  black  bullies  of  the  Cherry  Valley  gang.  The 
bully  had  promised  to  kill  this  white-polled  ancient 
on  sight,  and,  as  he  habitually  "toted  a  gun,"  he  was 
likely  to  carry  out  his  threat  at  their  first  meeting. 

"Certainly  ain't  gwine  to  be  no  meetin',  if  I  sees 
him  first,"  the  old  man  declared  with  conviction, 
"but  I  cyan't  have  eyes  all  round  my  head  at  once, 
an'  I  cyan't  rest  nights  tryin'  to  keep  'em  so.  If  you 
could  help  me,  Boss,  I  certainly  would  be  thankful. 
Nobody  else  won't,  not  in  dis  world !  I  'se  begged  'em 
all." 

He  had  sworn  out  a  warrant  for  the  apprehension 
of  his  persecutor,  and  had  taken  the  warrant  to  the 
Constable,  in  due  and  proper  course.  But  the  Con- 
stable, honest  gray-beard  that  he  was,  feigned  no  abil- 
ity to  serve  that  writ.  He  knew  that  the  burly  black 
rascal  would  at  best  snatch  it  out  of  his  hand  and  tear 
it  up  before  his  face,  and  that  he  would  be  lucky  to 
escape  merely  with  ridicule  and  without  bodily  in- 
jury. So  the  Constable  had  flatly  refused  the  at- 
tempt. The  patient  old  negro  had  then  plodded  back 
to  the  Squire. 

"Dis  here  writ  —  please,  sah,  Constable  say  he 
won't  serve  it.  What  I  gwine  do  next?" 


220        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Don't  know.  Guess  there  ain't  anything  to  do 
next,"  opined  the  Squire. 

"But,  Squire,  I'se  too  afraid!  Dat  man  gwine  kill 
me,  sure!" 

"Well,  then,  I  guess  you'd  better  move  away  from 
here.  Go  some  place  where  he  won't  find  you.  That 
would  be  my  idea." 

The  suppliant  stood  for  a  moment  silent,  with 
hanging  head.  Then,  with  a  sigh,  he  started  down  the 
path  from  the  Squire's  door.  Perhaps  something  in 
the  humble  dejection  of  the  figure  touched  the  Justice 
slightly.  Perhaps  he  suddenly  remembered  that  this 
man  could  wield  a  whitewash  brush  a  little  bit  better 
than  any  one  else  in  the  Borough,  and  that  in  haying- 
time  he  came  in  handily. 

"Look  here,  you!"  he  shouted  down  the  path. 
"There's  those  State  Police  just  come  to  town.  I 
don't  reckon  they'll  do  anything  for  you,  but  it 
could  n't  hurt  to  walk  over  and  ask  'em  before  you 
pack  up.  Your  time  ain't  worth  much,  anyhow." 

"Certainly  we  will  serve  this  warrant,"  said  Ser- 
geant Jacobs,  having  read  the  writ.  "Why  not?" 

The  old  negro  could  scarcely  credit  his  ears.  "But 
—  but  Cherry  Valley's  an  awful  wicked  place,  an* 
Cherry  Valley  fights  by  de  bunch.  Razors  —  an' 
knives  —  an'  every  kind  of  gun." 

"Now,  uncle,  don't  you  fret.  Go  along  home  and 
eat  your  dinner  in  peace.  We'll  take  care  of  you. 
Leave  Cherry  Valley  to  us." 

The  old  man  stared,  while  his  lips  moved.  He 
seemed  to  be  repeating  the  words  to  himself,  savoring 
them  one  by  one.  Slowly  his  heart  shone  through  his 


CHERRY  VALLEY 

wrinkled  mask,  translated.  Fifty  years  had  rolled 
away.  Once  more  he  stood  in  a  world  that  he  knew  — 
among  "real  white  folks"  at  home.  He  clasped  his 
knotted  hands  while  the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 

"Oh,  Master!  Master,  dear!"  he  sobbed  and 
laughed  together,  falling  unconsciously  upon  the 
long-hushed  name.  "D-don't  let  them  hurt  you  over 
there.  Don't  let  'em  harm  one  HT  hair  of  yo'  precious 
haid!  Dis  ole  nigger  ain't  wuth  it!" 

"May  de  Lord  forgive  me!"  he  said  again,  as  he 
watched  the  Sergeant  and  Private  Gjertsen  ride  out 
of  sight,  down  the  Cherry  Valley  road.  "May  de 
Lord  have  mercy  on  my  sinful  soul!  I  certainly  did 
think  He  done  called  all  His  old-time  peoples  home!" 

It  was  a  Saturday  afternoon  —  the  afternoon  of 
pay-day.  The  gangs  had  gathered  in  Cherry  Valley, 
and  the  weekly  trouble  was  already  afoot.  Men  and 
women  had  been  drinking  heavily.  Quarrels  were  pro- 
gressing, ugly  combinations  had  formed.  As  the  two 
Troopers  rode  down  the  street,  a  cloud  of  hostile 
questions  surrounded  them.  Who  were  they?  Why 
had  they  come? 

Their  uniform  was  unknown  here,  their  name  and 
purpose  were  almost  as  strange.  But  they  looked  like 
men  claiming  authority,  and  Cherry  Valley  in  theory 
denied  authority  utterly.  In  the  concrete  it  had  never 
seen  it  —  knew  it  not  at  all. 

Sergeant  Jacobs  glanced  in  at  the  windows  of  the 
Company  Store,  as  they  passed.  The  windows  were 
filled  with  lowering  faces,  among  them  some  that  were 
American,  and  of  the  better  sort. 


THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Said  the  Sergeant  to  Trooper  Gjertsen:  — 

"I'll  wager  we  have  n't  a  friend  in  the  whole  vil- 
lage—  Americans,  foreigners,  negroes,  every  one  of 
them  is  ready  to  fight/' 

They  rode  on  a  few  yards  farther,  coming  to  a 
house  on  whose  porch  a  stalwart  negro  lounged. 

"As  we're  strangers  everywhere,  we  may  as  well 
begin  here,"  remarked  the  Sergeant,  dismounting. 

They  tied  their  horses  and  entered. 

Within  the  thick  squalor  of  the  place  some  fifteen 
or  twenty  negroes  were  playing  poker  and  drinking. 
To  the  query  of  the  Sergeant  they  answered,  with 
surly  scowls,  that  the  man  he  sought  was  not  in  that 
house. 

Satisfying  themselves  that  this  was  probably  true, 
the  Troopers  proceeded  to  another  and  yet  other 
negro  abodes,  still  with  a  like  result.  Everywhere  the 
same  surly  quasi-insolence,  the  same  hostile  with- 
holding of  all  information,  suggestions,  or  help. 

Finally  they  approached  a  house  at  whose  front 
door  a  slatternly  white  woman  sat,  while  a  little 
mulatto  girl  stood  on  the  back  porch.  In  some  vague 
way  the  two  suggested  a  guard. 

"We'll  try  this  place,"  said  Sergeant  Jacobs.  "I'll 
take  the  front  door,  Gjertsen.  You  go  to  the  rear." 

Both  officers  asked  the  seeming  sentries  whether 
the  negro  named  in  the  warrant  was  within  the  house. 
Both  received  a  defiant  "No!"  Then  they  entered, 
from  their  respective  sides,  and  together  made  a 
thorough  search  of  the  ground  floor.  The  search 
proved  barren.  The  Troopers  mounted  to  the  second 
and  only  remaining  floor.  Here  also  their  hunt  re- 


CHERRY  VALLEY  223 

vealed  nothing.  Disappointed,  they  descended  the 
stairs,  and  were  about  leaving  the  house,  when  an 
indefinable  shade  on  the  face  of  the  white  woman 
made  them  pause. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  that  this  man  is  not  in  the 
house?  " 

"Sure?  Of  course  I'm  sure!"  the  woman  snapped 
back. 

The  Sergeant  looked  her  square  in  the  eye,  long  and 
steadily.  "I'll  just  go  up  and  have  another  glance — " 
he  began. 

"  Can't  you  take  a  lady's  word,  then,  you  coward, 
you  — "  and  she  babbled  off,  like  a  hot  geyser,  into  a 
torrent  of  mud. 

" — and  I'll  bring  him  down  with  me  in  a  mo- 
ment," finished  the  Sergeant,  imperturbably,  his  foot 
on  the  stair. 

"There's  just  this  one  place  left,  and  he  must  be 
in  it,"  Sergeant  Jacobs  was  saying,  a  moment  later. 

He  stood  before  the  chimney  breast  in  the  rear 
chamber,  gazing  at  the  chimney-hole.  In  point  of 
size  that  hole  might  conceivably  have  admitted  the 
body  of  a  man.  But  it  was  stuffed  tight  with  old 
blankets  and  gunny-sacks,  to  keep  the  wind  away, 
and  the  blankets  and  gunny-sacks  were  gray  with  a 
season's  dust. 

"If  he's  in  there,  they've  done  it  well!"  exclaimed 
Gjertsen. 

They  had,  indeed,  done  it  with  talent.  Fine  white 
coal-ash,  scattered  over  the  hastily  arranged  cloths 
and  then  fanned  off  to  avoid  unnatural  surplus,  sug- 
gested an  inference  that  might  easily  deceive.  But 


224        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

when  the  two  officers  had  jerked  the  last  obstructing 
gunny-sack  out  of  that  chimney-hole  the  view  that 
rewarded  them  comprised  one  large  splay-foot. 

They  got  him  down,  sooty  and  perspiring,  and 
very  wroth.  They  searched  him  for  arms  and  found 
that  he  had  turned  his  gun  and  razor  over  to  the 
woman  before  making  his  ascent.  At  first  he  was 
confused,  but  as  he  breathed  less  creosote  he  grew 
more  threatening  and  bold. 

"We'll  handcuff  this  man,"  said  the  Sergeant. 

As  the  irons  clicked  fast  the  woman  burst  out  again 
into  railings.  "Tin  soldiers!"  she  screamed,  and 
launched  into  her  malodorous  vocabulary. 

Meantime  a  mob  of  no  mean  dimensions  had  as- 
sembled around  the  house.  It  numbered  several  hun- 
dred persons,  chiefly  negroes  and  foreign  miners,  with 
the  negroes  everywhere  well  to  the  fore.  Sergeant 
Jacobs,  with  a  practised  glance,  estimated  its  temper 
and  its  probable  trend  of  thought.  Much,  as  he  well 
knew,  depended  on  the  justice  of  that  quick  estimate. 
His  object  was,  first,  to  get  his  prisoner  out  of  Cherry 
Valley  and  over  to  the  Burgettstown  Jail  without 
harm  to  the  man;  and,  second,  but  not  less,  to  avoid 
any  outbreak  and  consequent  birth  of  ill-feeling,  on 
the  part  of  the  crowd  itself. 

"Got  to  make  good  in  that  country,"  Captain 
Pitcher  had  said.  "  You  are  going  to  establish  a  name 
for  the  Force." 

And  back  in  the  first  days,  when  all  the  Force  were 
recruits  together,  had  not  the  Major  himself  im- 
pressed upon  his  Troopers,  one  and  all,  — 


CHERRY  VALLEY  225 

"In  making  an  arrest  you  may  use  no  force  beyond 
the  minimum  necessary." 

That  crowd,  then,  must  not  be  allowed  to  conceive 
ideas  that  would  necessitate  strong  measures. 

"They  will  centre  at  first  on  the  horses,"  the  Ser- 
geant theorized  to  himself.  "I'll  amuse  them  with 
the  horses  while  Gjertsen  gets  ahead  with  the  man." 

"Gjertsen,"  he  said,  "remain  dismounted  and 
start  away  with  the  prisoner.  I'll  follow  you." 

Sergeant  Jacobs  killed  as  much  time  as  he  could  in 
untying  the  two  mounts.  The  crowd  looked  on  in- 
tent, sullen,  and  muttering.  At  last  one  in  the  front 
rank  shouted:  — 

"What  are  you  taking  this  man  away  for?" 

"Why  do  you  ask?"  responded  the  officer. 

"I  got  a  right  to  know.  He  lives  here.  I  demand  to 
know." 

The  speaker  was  a  blue-black  giant  with  a  mouth 
like  a  collapsible  megaphone.  His  manner  was  trucu- 
lent. 

"If  you  want  to  find  out,"  coolly  replied  the  Ser- 
geant, "come  down  to  the  Squire's  office  by  and  by. 
Then  you  can  hear  all  about  it/' 

The  murmurs  of  the  negroes  swelled,  bordered  on 
abuse.  The  Sergeant  faced  around. 

"I  am  an  officer  of  the  State  Police,"  said  he,  very 
sharply  and  distinctly.  "Remember  that  you  are 
permitted  to  show  no  disrespect  and  to  use  no  bad 
language  concerning  the  uniform  of  the  State  of 
Pennsylvania,  which  I  wear." 

As  yet  they  guessed  but  dimly  of  what  he  spoke. 
The  meaning  had  still  to  be  proved  to  them.  But 


THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

something  in  his  bearing  gave  them  pause,  never- 
theless. 

With  all  their  lawless  ill-will,  with  all  their  old  im- 
punity, with  all  their  swarming  numbers,  they  hesi- 
tated and  held  back  in  the  presence  of  this  one 
stranger.  In  the  crowd  there  were  a  hundred  young 
men  of  far  more  than  the  Sergeant's  weight,  men  of 
ox-like  strength,  bred  to  blood  and  violence.  A  sher- 
iff's posse,  however  well  armed,  would  have  been  their 
half -holiday  joy.  But  this  solitary  figure  now  con- 
fronting them  diffused  some  unknown  influence  — 
was  as  strange  as  if  it  had  descended  from  Mars. 
The  uniform,  color  of  a  thundercloud,  severe  as  if 
cast  in  steel,  suggesting  a  Power  somewhere  unseen; 
the  body  that  moulded  the  uniform,  lithe,  clean- 
muscled,  hard,  suggesting  an  iron  discipline  that  itself 
is  power;  the  face,  clear-cut,  lean,  quick,  with  dark, 
live  eyes,  faithfully  promising  surprise  to  whoever 
should  go  too  far — all  these  contributed  then*  parts. 
The  crowd  held  back. 

Meantime  Sergeant  Jacobs,  watching  the  progress 
of  his  comrade,  saw  him  safely  turn  the  corner  of  the 
street.  In  a  moment  more  he  would  be  passing  the 
Coal  Company's  Store.  "There,"  thought  the  Ser- 
geant, "we  shall  certainly  get  backing.  The  Superin- 
tendent will  come  out  with  his  men." 

Leading  the  horses,  and  at  a  deliberate  pace,  not 
to  excite  the  mob,  he  moved  on  to  rejoin  Gjertsen. 

They  passed  the  Company  Store.  It  was  crowded 
with  the  very  people  on  whom  officers  of  the  State 
should  have  been  able  to  count  for  stanch  support. 
But  not  a  man  of  them  came  forth.  Instead,  they 


CHERRY  VALLEY  227 

hung  in  the  windows  and  doors,  with  jeers  on  their 
faces,  voicing  grotesque  solicitude  as  to  the  fate  of 
"tin  soldiers"  in  Cherry  Valley  —  betting  on  the 
number  of  pieces  into  which  they  would  be  dissected 
before  the  hour  was  done. 

The  two  officers  paid  no  heed  —  kept  straight  on 
their  homeward  course.  The  manacled  negro  walked 
before  them.  The  crowd,  bunched  dark  and  swollen 
like  swarming  bees,  hung  buzzing  where  the  Sergeant 
had  left  it. 

"I  guess  we're  all  right  now,"  said  Gjertsen. 
I  "We'll  mount  in  a  moment,"  the  Sergeant  agreed. 

But  at  this  the  prisoner,  who  had  so  far  submitted, 
sullenly  dumb,  aroused  himself  to  dispute  his  fate. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  walk  to  Burgettstown,"  he  an- 
nounced. "If  you  want  me  to  go  to  Burgettstown, 
you  got  to  take  me  in  a  rig." 

"Keep  right  along  going.  We  can't  get  any  con- 
veyance here.  A  four-mile  walk  won't  hurt  anybody," 
answered  the  Sergeant  good-naturedly. 

The  fellow  slouched  on  for  a  few  yards,  obedient, 
though  glowering.  But  he  had  caught  his  cue.  His 
aim  now  was  to  communicate  it  to  his  timorous 
friends  behind. 

"By  Moses,  I  ain't  —  goin'  —  on!"  he  bellowed, 
and  stopped  short  in  his  tracks. 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  Sergeant. 

The  prisoner  obeyed  once  more.  But  he  had  gained 
time,  and  time  was  all  that  was  needed  for  his  policy 
to  take  effect.  This  also  the  Troopers  appreciated. 

Another  rod  or  two,  and  then  the  black  played  his 
trump  card.  He  flung  himself  flat  on  the  ground.  "I 


228        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

won't  walk  no  fo'  miles  for  nobody !"  he  howled.  "I 
won't  walk  no  fo'  miles  for  nobody  on  earth!  Yah! 
Yah!  Yah!" 

Trooper  Gjertsen  jerked  him  upright.  It  was  not 
too  easily  done,  for  the  fellow  made  himself  a  dead, 
disjointed,  flaccid  mass.  Yet  done  it  was,  and  quickly, 
for  such  a  job.  Meantime  Sergeant  Jacobs  held  the 
horses,  and  kept  a  corner  of  his  eyes  on  the  crowd. 

The  crowd  was  moving  at  last.  The  big,  blue- 
black  spokesman,  leading  it,  was  coming  on  at  a  dead 
run.  By  the  posture  of  his  hand,  the  Sergeant  thought 
that  he  was  holding  concealed  a  revolver.  Therefore, 
interposing  himself  between  Private  Gjertsen  with  his 
captive  and  the  oncoming  giant,  and  holding  the 
horses  with  his  left  arm  as  a  man  holds  a  shield,  he 
awaited  the  moment.  It  came.  He  saw  that  the  ne- 
gro's hands  were  empty  —  and  that  he  was  making 
for  the  prisoner  first. 

"Here,"  shouted  the  new  arrival,  at  the  top  of  his 
bull-like  lungs,  "you  don't  have  to  go  with  these  men! 
They  don't  have  no  authority  here!  They  can't  take 
you,  I  say!" 

From  the  rapidly  nearing  crowd  rose  an  inarticulate 
howl  of  applause. 

Sergeant  Jacobs,  enveloped  in  calm,  proceeded  like 
a  methodical  nurse  with  an  infant  lunatic.  Without 
difficulty  or  seeming  exertion,  he  encircled  the  big 
negro  with  his  grip,  pinning  the  two  flapping  arms 
tight  to  the  body. 

He  had  dropped  the  horses.  Apache,  he  knew, 
would  stand  alone,  like  the  friend  and  the  brother 
that  he  is,  in  the  hour  of  need. 


CHERRY  VALLEY  229 

"Take  the  cuff  off  that  other  fellow's  right  hand, 
Gjertsen.  Snap  it  on  this  one's  left.  So!  There's  a 
pair  of  love-birds  for  you!  Now,  you  two,  you  are  not 
going  to  start  a  riot.  March!" 

The  thing  was  done  so  quickly,  so  unexpectedly, 
that  it  had  the  effect  of  a  stroke  of  fate.  The  big,  bold 
leader,  the  dare-devil  spokesman,  had  been  plucked 
like  a  wayside  weed.  In  an  instant  it  was  over. 
Shame  sat  upon  him.  His  place  of  glory  could  know 
him  no  more. 

Where  the  leader  had  fallen  so  desperately,  would 
the  crew  rush  in  and  dare?  It  parleyed.  It  hesitated. 

But  the  two  burly  blacks  were  not  yet  subdued. 
"We'll  have  our  rights!"  bellowed  the  giant,  a  sea- 
lawyer  ashore.  "You're  obliged  to  give  us  transpor- 
tation!" 

"Transpo'tation!  Transpo'tation!"  howled  the 
other.  "We  want  transpo'tation ! " 

"  You  can't  compel  us  to  walk !  It 's  against  the  law ! '' 

Said  Sergeant  Jacobs,."  You'll  walk  or  be  dragged." 

Then  each  Trooper  pulled  his  hitching-strap  from 
his  saddle,  each  fastened  a  strap  to  a  negro's  unman- 
acled  wrist,  and  mounted. 

"Start  up!"  ordered  the  Sergeant. 

The  blacks  came  to  their  feet  with  sprawling  haste. 
Handcuffed  together  like  Siamese  twins  and  with  their 
free  hands  lariated  by  a  taut  line,  they  had  no  choice. 

"Well,  —  I  guess  we'll  walk,"  growled  one. 

"Until  you're  done  guessing  and  are  quite  sure  of 
it,  you'll  walk  as  you  are,"  the  Sergeant  replied. 

They  plunged  on  for  a  few  yards,  between  the  two 
horses. 


230        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Please,  sir,  won't  you  kindly  allow  us  to  walk  in 
front  of  the  horses  in  the  natural  way,  if  you  please, 
sir!"  It  was  the  big  spokesman,  this  time,  his  inso- 
lence suddenly  gone. 

As  Gjertsen  unfastened  the  straps,  the  Sergeant 
looked  back.  The  crowd,  so  shortly  before  on  the 
ragged  verge  of  an  outbreak  that  would  have  put 
enmity  between  the  people  and  the  Force  in  that 
Valley  for  years  to  come,  that  crowd  of  hostile  hun- 
dreds was  melting  away.  No  more  fight  was  left  in  it. 
It  was  thinking.  It  was  going  home.  It  was  almost 
won  to  a  laugh. 

"I  believe  the  Major  would  like  that,"  Sergeant 
Jacobs  murmured,  his  eyes  on  the  peaceful  perspec- 
tive. 

"I  think  the  Captain  would  say  it's  a  right  start," 
Gjertsen  elaborated.  "But  there  were  moments — " 

"There  were,"  the  Sergeant  concurred. 

The  march  ended  at  the  Squire's  office  door. 

"Now,  what  about  the  other  man?"  asked  the 
Justice,  having  disposed  of  the  subject  of  the  first 
arrest. 

"In  his  case,"  responded  the  Sergeant,  "we  ask  for 
a  considerable  penalty.  These  are  our  first  arrests  in 
Washington  County,  and  we  intend  to  be  fair,  square, 
and  not  too  severe.  But  this  man  tried  his  best  to 
cause  a  riot  in  resistance  to  the  execution  of  the  Law. 
We  do  not  intend  to  encourage  such  enterprise." 

"I'll  give  him  four  months,"  said  the  Squire. 

Later,  the  prisoner  begged  that  he  might  speak  to 
Sergeant  Jacobs  alone. 


CHERRY  VALLEY  231 

"Cap'n,"  said  he,  "Squire's  given  me  four  months. 
But  before  I  go  away,  I  want  to  explain  to  you  that  I 
did  n't  know  you  was  a  State  Police  officer.  Did  n't 
know  what  a  State  Police  officer  is.  I  came  up  from 
Virginny,  I  did.  I  thought  you  was  just  like  all  the 
militia  down  there  —  just  tin  soldiers  that  nobody 
don't  mind.  An',  Cap'n,  I  want  to  ask  your  pardon 
before  I  go  away,  because,  when  I  get  out,  Cherry 
Valley  ain't  no  place  for  me  unless  you  know  1 9m  your 
man." 

"Marse  Sergeant  Jacobs'  man,  indeed!"  snorted 
old  Uncle  White- Wool  when  he  heard  the  tale.  He 
had  already  attached  himself,  body,  soul,  and  lonely 
heart,  to  his  new  hero,  and  had  endowed  him  with  all 
the  attributes  of  long  ago.  "Marse  Sergeant  Jacobs 
don't  have  no  use  fo'  dot  common  new  trash!  I'se  de 
onlies'  nigger  he  tolerate  'bout  his  pusson.  My  name 
is  Jacobs,  sah,  if  you  please.  I'se  changed  it  to  suit 
de  occasion." 

Such  was  the  introduction  of  the  State  Police  to 
Washington  County;  and  the  sub-station  details,  one 
after  another  over  a  long  period,  followed  a  good 
start.  But  at  last  came  a  day  when  the  "economy" 
of  the  State  Legislature  so  operated  that  Burgetts- 
town  sub-station  must  be  withdrawn  for  lack  of  funds 
to  sustain  its  Spartan  cost;  and  then  was  afforded  a 
gauge  of  the  real  feeling  of  the  farmers  toward  the 
Force.  That  thinly  populated  region  sent  in  a  peti- 
tion signed  by  nearly  four  thousand  persons,  urgently 
protesting  against  the  withdrawal  of  the  devoted 
friends  and  protectors,  without  whose  presence  they 
scarcely  now  knew  how  to  live. 


X 

THE  CAPTAIN  OF  TROOP  "A 


«  A    •  • 


r|\fcLb;  Burgess  leaned  on  his  office  table,  chin  in 
A  palm,  scowling.  With  his  free  fingers  he  beat  a 
devil's  tattoo  on  the  hard  wood  over  which  his  waist- 
coat buttons  should  have  presided.  But  the  Burgess 
wore  no  waistcoat.  His  costume,  in  fact,  was  in  the 
extreme  sketchy,  and  his  hair  suggested  the  thought 
that  the  pillow,  rather  than  the  brush,  had  been  its 
latest  companion.  The  Burgess  radiated  an  atmos- 
phere of  doubt,  wrath,  and  extreme  anxiety.  It  was 
five  minutes  to  four  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

By  the  table  stood  the  Borough  Chief  of  Police, 
large,  serious,  with  an  air  of  weight  and  importance. 
At  his  side  waited  one  of  his  officers,  a  small  man  in 
the  uniform  of  the  Borough  service.  Over  in  a  corner, 
among  the  shadows,  sat  one  seemingly  on  the  eve  of 
old  age,  with  a  face  like  the  face  of  an  ancient  hound 
—  long  of  line,  drooping,  full  of  a  sort  of  hopeless 
yearning  and  of  habitual  sadness.  He  sat  on  the  edge 
of  his  chair.  His  hands,  between  his  knees,  worked 
nervously  at  the  brim  of  his  hat,  and  his  eyes  never 
left  the  Burgess.  His  dress,  neat  and  clean,  had  once 
been  good;  now  it  would  soon  be  shabby.  He  was 
obviously  under  stress  of  strong  excitement. 

On  the  table  lay  four  objects:  A  much  crumpled 
newspaper;  an  electric  flash-lamp;  a  red  bandanna 
handkerchief;  and  a  bomb,  lying  within  a  piece  of 
common  manila  wrapping-paper. 

The  Burgess,  the  Chief,  and  the  Constable  stared 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  TROOP  A      233 

at  the  four  objects.  The  man  in  the  corner  stared  at 
the  Burgess.  No  one  spoke.  No  one  had  spoken  for 
some  moments  past.  Nothing  broke  the  silence  but 
the  steady  beat  of  the  devil's  tattoo. 

"Damn  it  all!"  the  Burgess  broke  out  at  last. 

The  Chief's  eyebrows  flickered  up  for  the  fraction 
of  an  instant,  as  instantly  to  resume  their  natural 
level.  The  Chief  was  a  discreet  man  and  one  who 
could  make  allowances. 

"You  say,"  —  the  Burgess  spoke  again, — "that 
nothing  in  this  stuff  here  gives  any  clue."  He  jerked 
his  chin  toward  the  objects  on  the  table. 

"Why,  no,  not  quite  that,"  the  Chief  rejoined. 
"I  said  that  bomb,  that  flash-light,  and  that  ban- 
danna have  nothing  individual  about  them.  But  the 
newspaper  is  a  little  different.  It's  in  Greek.  Only, 
there  are  hundreds  of  Greeks  around  here  —  hundreds 
and  hundreds  of  them.  So  I  don't  see  how  even  the 
paper  gives  us  much  of  a  start." 

The  Burgess  rubbed  an  impatient  hand  through  his 
already  rampant  forelock.  "We  can't  fall  down  on 
this.  It's  too  serious.  It  would  reflect  the  worst  way 
on  our  administration.  Of  course  you  hunted  every- 
where you  could  think  of  ?  " 

"We  made  a  complete  search,"  the  Chief  stated  for 
the  fourth  time  within  the  hour,  yet  still  with  un- 
ruffled patience,  —  "a  complete  and  thorough  search 
of  the  entire  neighborhood,  before  reporting  to  you, 
sir.  And  it  gave  no  result  whatever  except  what  you 
see  before  you." 

"Damn  it  all!"  the  Burgess  once  more  permitted 
himself. 


234        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Again  silence  settled  on  the  room  —  silence  so  deep 
as  to  make  audible  a  clicking  sound  when  the  man  in 
the  shadowy  corners  parted  his  lips  to  moisten  them. 

It  was  the  little  Constable  who  spoke  next. 

"I  suppose  you  gentlemen  know,"  he  ventured 
deprecatingly,  "that  Captain  Adams  is  over  in  the 
city.  Came  up  yesterday,  on  special  duty." 

"What!"  his  two  superiors  jerked  out  together. 

"You  don't  mean  Adams  of  the  State  Police?  "  the 
Burgess  ejaculated,  hope  and  the  fear  of  hope  too 
sanguine  mingling  in  his  voice. 

"Not  Lynn  G.,  Captain  of  'A'  Troop?"  the  Chief 
was  exclaiming  in  the  same  breath. 

"Yes,  sir  -  Yes,  I  do  —  Yes,  it  is  —  That's  the 
man,"  the  Constable  did  his  best  to  answer. 

"Burgess,"  said  the  Chief  of  Police  impressively, 
"people  that  ought  to  know  call  Lynn  Adams  the  best 
detective  in  the  State.  And  if  you  ask  him,  and  if  he 
possibly  can  do  it,  he'll  help  us  out." 

"//I'll  ask  him!"  the  Burgess  scoffed.  "The  only 
question  is,  Can  he  spare  us  the  time  for  it?  He's  not 
in  the  city  for  nothing — he 's  got  work  on  hand.  Here 
—  where  can  I  call  him?" 

The  Burgess  was  lunging  after  his  desk  telephone. 

The  little  Constable  named  the  place.  "At  least,  I 
think  that's  likeliest,"  he  added,  carefully.  "You 
know  they  do  move  pretty  quick  and  unexpected  — 
the  State  Police  do  —  and  when  their  business  is  fin- 
ished they're  off  somewhere  else  on  the  tick.  That's 
where  he  was,  last  evening." 

But  the  Burgess  was  already  talking  over  the 
wire.  "...  Mighty  glad  you're  in  the  neighborhood. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  TROOP  A      235 

We're  in  trouble  over  here.  Bomb  affair.  We  can't 
make  head  or  tail  of  it.  I  surely  would  appreciate  it 
if  you  could  spare  time  to  come  over  and  advise  us. 
I'll  have  a  car  at  your  door  in  ten  minutes.  .  .  .  All 
right.  Good!  Thank  you,  Captain !" 

The  Burgess,  as  he  hung  up  the  receiver,  swung 
around  with  almost  a  smile  on  his  face.  "Says  he'll 
come!"  he  reported. 

"That's  the  talk!"  the  Chief  rejoined. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  rush  of  an  engine,  the  slam 
of  a  car  door,  and  a  springy  foot  on  the  steps  pro- 
claimed an  arrival.  The  Burgess,  himself  going  out 
to  admit  his  visitor,  in  a  moment  returned  escorting 
him. 

The  newcomer  was  a  man  about  thirty-five  years 
old,  tall,  soldierly  in  the  true  American  type,  and 
with  that  about  him,  in  face  and  bearing,  that  would 
command  men's  attention  anywhere. 

"Have  a  seat,  Captain,"  the  Burgess  was  saying. 
"Gosh!  but  I'm  pleased  to  see  you!  We've  been 
worried  to  death,  here,  —  the  Chief  and  I,  —  and  it 
was  like  a  godsend  hearing  you  were  in  the  vicinity. 
Now,  Chief,  you  start  in  and  tell  the  Captain  all  you 
know." 

The  Burgess  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair  to  listen 
at  ease.  The  anxious  frown  on  his  face  had  changed  to 
a  look  of  keen  and  hopeful  expectation.  The  little 
Constable  beamed  mildly  triumphant.  The  man  in 
the  shadows  rubbed  his  hands  together  with  a  dry 
rasping. 

"Well,"  the  Chief  began,  "it  was  this  way:  A  lit- 
tle after  midnight  —  say  quarter  to  twenty-five  min- 


236        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

utes  after  —  this  gentleman  over  yonder  in  the  corner 

—  Oh!  Meet  Mr.  Hill,  Captain  Adams,  I  don't  be- 
lieve the  Burgess   introduced  you.    Well,  this  Mr. 
Hill  here,  he  came  to  my  house  and  rang  the  door- 
bell and  asked  to  see  me.  I  ran  right  down,  of  course, 
and  this  is  the  report  he  gave:  - 

"He'd  been  kept  at  his  store  —  he  deals  in  plumb- 
ers' supplies,  Mr.  Hill  does  —  he'd  been  kept  at  his 
store  very  late,  figuring  on  accounts.  And  it  was  a 
little  before  midnight  that  he  started  to  walk  home. 
When  he  came  to  pass  Mr.  Burr's  residence  —  A.  C. 
Burr,  you  know,  the  big  manufacturer  —  he  hap- 
pened to  notice  somebody  sneaking  along  through  the 
bushes  inside  Mr.  Burr's  fence.  He  thought  that 
did  n't  seem  right,  so  he  just  slid  quietly  in  through 
the  gate  to  have  a  look.  And  in  a  minute,  there  in 
the  shrubbery  on  the  lawn,  he  came  face  to  face  with 
a  man.  The  man  had  a  bundle  in  his  hand.  And 
Mr.  Hill  thinks  he  was  a  Greek. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?'  says  Mr.  Hill. 

"'None  of  your  damn  business,'  says  the  man,  and 
he  drops  his  parcel  on  the  ground  and  he  pulls  out  his 
gun. 

"But  Mr.  Hill,  here,  as  the  Greek  threw  up  the 
gun,  jumped  and  grappled  with  him.  The  man  fired, 
and  the  bullet  went  straight  through  Mr.  Hill's  hat. 
Then  Mr.  Hill  grabbed  the  gun;  only,  in  the  tussle, 
he  missed  the  barrel  and  caught  the  muzzle  itself  fair 
in  the  palm  of  his  hand  —  and  the  Greek  fired  again. 

—  Mr.  Hill  showed  me  where  the  bullet  went.  —  Yes, 
sir,  it  passed  clean  between  the  joints,  drilling  a  hole 
between  the  bones  and  the  leaders.   Very  lucky  you 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  TROOP  A      237 

were,  too,  Mr.  Hill,  to  have  done  such  a  reckless  thing 
and  to  have  got  off  so  easy.  Mighty  plucky  of  you 
—  and  A.  C.  surely  ought  to  appreciate  it.  But  at 
your  age  —  really! 

"Well,  so  with  that  Mr.  Hill  falls  down  —  shock, 
you  know.  But  in  a  minute  or  two  he  recovered  him- 
self, and  when  he  looked  around,  he  saw  the  Greek 
was  gone  away.  Then,  like  a  wise  man,  he  comes  as 
fast  as  he  can  straight  over  to  me,  and  wakes  me  up 
and  tells  the  story. 

"So,  of  course,  I  hurried  to  A.  C.'s  at  once,  taking 
the  Constable,  here,  along  with  me.  By  that  time, 
very  naturally,  Mr.  Hill  was  pretty  well  done  up,  so 
I  left  him  at  Dr.  Hill's,  his  cousin,  next  door  to  me, 
to  get  his  hand  fixed  and  to  rest. 

"Constable  and  I  hunted  all  over  Mr.  Burr's 
premises  and  the  entire  surroundings.  All  we  found  is 
what  you  see  before  you  on  the  table.  That  bomb  was 
wrapped  up  in  that  newspaper.  The  other  things  were 
lying  around  close  to  it.  They  were  on  Mr.  Burr's 
lawn,  just  near  the  house.  No  doubt  at  all,  the  Greek 
meant  to  wreck  the  house,  and  would  have  succeeded 
only  for  Mr.  Hill's  nick-of-time  interference.  Of 
course,  after  he'd  fired  his  gun  twice,  and  made  noise 
enough  to  rouse  the  neighborhood,  he  did  n't  dare 
stay  to  finish  his  work! 

"Now,  Mr.  Hill  —  that's  straight,  is  n't  it?  Is  n't 
that  your  experience?" 

"Perfectly  correct,  Chief,"  answered  the  man  in 
the  corner.  "Correct  in  every  detail." 

"Well,  and  then  Constable  and  I  went  around  to 
Dr.  Hill's  office  again,  and  got  Mr.  Hill  and  brought 


238        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

him  here  to  the  Burgess.  And  I  call  it  a  pretty  tough 
proposition,  and  a  proposition  without  much  handle 
to  it,"  the  Chief  added  emphatically. 

"Mr.  Burr,"  he  went  on,  "employs  hundreds  of 
Greeks.  And  one  is  just  as  likely  as  another  to  have 
this  pretty  idea  to  bomb  the  house.  As  to  the  gun, 
they  've  all  got  'em  —  brought  'em  back  when  they 
returned  after  the  Greek  war.  So  you  could  n't  hope 
to  identify  him  by  that.  The  flash-light  and  the  ban- 
danna are  just  like  thousands  of  others  —  and  any 
Greek  might  have  that  piece  of  newspaper.  I  confess 
I  don't  see  where  to  begin  in  the  case.  But  A.  C.  and 
the  public  ain't  going  to  see  our  difficulty.  They'll 
be  yelling  for  arrests." 

During  the  Chief's  recital  the  Captain  had  walked 
over  to  the  table,  and,  one  by  one,  had  examined  the 
exhibits  in  the  close  rays  of  the  lamp.  The  bomb,  for 
a  moment,  seemed  to  interest  him  specially,  as  he 
revolved  it  under  the  bright  light;  then  the  flash- 
lamp  and  the  newspaper. 

At  last  he  looked  up  with  a  smile. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  help  us?"  the  Burgess 
asked  anxiously.  "Witt  you  help  us?" 

"Perhaps  I  can.  Anyway,  I'll  try,"  the  Captain  of 
Troop  "A"  replied. 

"Have  you  got  the  time  for  it,  though?" 

"Well,  other  work  brought  me  to  the  city,  but  I 
think  I  can  make  the  time  that  this  will  require." 

The  Chief  and  the  Burgess  breathed  sighs  of  re- 
lief. The  little  Constable  felt  himself  growing  tall. 

"But  now,"  the  Captain  added,  "suppose  you  let 
me  have  these  things  for  the  time  being.  I'll  take 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  TROOP  A      239 

them  back  to  the  city  with  me.  And  you  all  go  get 
a  little  sleep.  I  'm  sure  Mr.  Hill  especially  needs  it. 
He  must  be  pretty  well  worn  out  after  such  a  night." 

The  man  in  the  corner  looked  up  gratefully. 

"I  do  feel  a  little  tired,  I'll  admit,"  said  he. 

"Is  that  hat  the  one  that  you  had  on  when  you 
went  into  Mr.  Burr's  garden?  " 

"The  same  one." 

"May  I  see  it?" 

The  man  in  the  corner  came  forward  to  the  table 
and  offered  his  hat,  a  soft  felt.  But  the  Captain  made 
no  move  to  take  it. 

"Just  hold  it  under  the  light,"  said  he,  "and  show 
us  where  the  bullet  struck." 

Stooping  under  the  lamp,  his  thin,  carefully  brushed 
white  hair  shining  above  his  tired  old  face,  the  hero 
of  the  night's  adventure  pointed  out  the  holes  that 
his  would-be  murderer's  lead  had  drilled.  Even  the 
powder-smudge  showed  within  —  proving  the  close- 
ness of  the  conflict.  He  seemed  so  frail  a  creature  to 
have  thrown  himself  into  a  desperate  battle,  alone,  in 
the  dark,  and  upon  an  occasion  so  easily  avoided! 

And  yet  there  remained  a  look  about  him  that  ex- 
plained it  all  —  a  look  of  the  eternal  child-heart,  full 
of  dreams  and  faiths  and  longings  too  slight  of  tissue 
to  endure  the  bitter  light  of  noon  —  full  of  generous 
impulse,  of  unreasoning  courage,  of  hope  beyond  all 
mortal  power  to  quench.  This  shabby,  sad  old  man 
would  be  capable  of  an  act  of  risk  and  romance  to  the 
very  end  of  his  days.  Even  now  he  was  subtly  suf- 
fused with  a  sort  of  exaltation,  born  of  his  bold  de- 
fiance of  facts,  weakness,  and  death. 


240       THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

An  hour  later,  in  his  room  in  the  city,  the  Captain 
of  "A"  Troop,  skilful-fingered,  was  dissecting  the 
bomb,  while  Sergeant  Moore  of  his  command  watched 
the  work  with  quiet  appreciation. 

"Six  sticks  of  dynamite  —  a  fuse  —  a  detonating 
cap,"  the  Captain  enumerated,  ranging  the  articles 
on  the  desk  before  him,.  "And  a  very  amateur  job 
it  is  —  eh,  Sergeant?" 

Sergeant  Moore  gave  his  little  trick  cough.  "Yes, 
sir  —  h'm-m  —  most  amateurish!" 

"Look  how  this  fuse  is  cut!  That  was  done  by  a 
person  who  never  handled  dynamite  before.  And 
here  again — is  n't  it  a  wonder  how  these  fellows  over- 
step themselves!  —  here  again  is  another  clue.  Look, 
Moore!  Not  a  trade-mark  on  one  of  these  six  sticks. 
Now,  you  know  that  almost  all  of  the  dynamite 
manufacturers  put  their  brands  on  everything  — 
the  Duponts  an  ellipse,  the  Atlas  Company  an  Atlas, 
and  so  on.  But  this  chap  was  careful  to  get  the  stuff 
without  a  mark.  And  his  very  precaution  simpli- 
fies our  job.  There  is  relatively  so  little  anonymous 
dynamite. 

"And,  Moore,  see  this  little  stain  on  the  shell  of  the 
thing.  What  is  it?" 

"H'm-m!  Blood,  sir  —  a  drop  of  blood." 

"Certainly.  When  I  first  saw  it  in  the  Burgess's 
office  it  was  even  clearer.  Now  let 's  have  that  bit  of 
brown  paper.  Look  in  the  corner,  Sergeant.  What 
do  you  see?" 

"A  little  —  h'm-m  —  problem  in  arithmetic,  sir. 
Set  down  neatly  with  a  very  fine  pencil.  Evidently 
the  deduction  from  some  kind  of  change." 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  TROOP  A       241 


5 'Yes?"  the  Captain  suggested. 

"And  the  amount  deducted  would  be  about  the 
price  to-day  of  six  sticks  of  dynamite,  and  this  fuse, 
and—" 

"And  a  few  extra  detonating  caps?"  the  Captain 
offered. 

"H'm-m!  Quite  so,"  agreed  Sergeant  Moore. 

"So  now,  as  soon  as  the  shops  open,  we  can  hunt 
for  a  place  where  they  sell  non-trade-marked  dyna- 
mite, and  where  some  one  has  recently  bought  this 
approximate  amount  of  stuff,  and  paid  cash  for  it. 
My  belief  is  that  the  clerk  who  sold  the  things  and 
who  made  this  calculation  in  these  smart  little  fig- 
ures, here,  will  remember  his  customer  pretty  well. 

"Moore,"  the  Captain  ran  on,  "it  was  a  most  prov- 
idential thing  that  this  Mr.  Hill  should  have  turned 
up  by  the  Burr  garden  at  that  time  of  night,  was  n't 
it!  From  what  I  learned  he  was  a  long  way  off  his 
normal  line  of  travel  between  his  home  and  the  place 
where  he  spent  his  evening.  It  was  providential, 
was  n't  it?" 

"Most  assuredly." 

"But,  Moore,  he  did  n't  show  judgment  in  going  in, 
himself,  after  the  skulker  in  the  bushes,  did  he?  At 
his  age  one  would  think  that  caution  and  common 
sense,  both,  would  have  sent  him  after  a  policeman." 

"H'm-m  —  the  blood-spot  —  " 

"Exactly,"  said  the  Captain.  "Now  we're  just  in 
time  to  get  a  shave  and  breakfast  before  the  shops 
open  their  doors." 

A  little  inquiry  among  the  city's  dealers  revealed 
the  fact  that  the  Atlas  Company  made  a  special  type 


242       THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

of  dynamite  —  a  grade  inferior  to  its  standard  —  on 
which  it  did  not  set  its  trade-mark.  Immediately  the 
Captain  proceeded  to  the  store  of  the  Atlas  agent. 

"Do  your  people  make  a  grade  of  dynamite  on 
which  they  put  no  brand?"  he  asked  of  the  pro- 
prietor, introducing  himself  officially. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Do  you  handle  it  here?" 

"We  do." 

"Do  you  recognize  these  as  an  Atlas  product?" 
The  Captain  laid  his  six  sticks  on  the  dealer's  desk. 

"Certainly.  That  is  our  own  make.  And,  more- 
over, I  am  the  only  merchant  in  the  city  who  deals 
in  it." 

"I  would  like,  then,  to  see  all  your  salesmen  of 
that  department." 

"Which,"  said  the  dealer,  "will  not  be  difficult. 
I  have  only  two  who  handle  dynamite." 

He  pressed  the  call-button  on  his  desk. 

"Send  in  Mr.  Blake,"  he  directed  the  boy  who  an- 
swered the  call. 

In  a  moment  the  door  of  the  private  office  again 
opened  and  a  young  man  stood  on  the  threshold. 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Blake.  Now,  Captain,  ask  what- 
ever you  like  and  Mr.  Blake  will  answer  to  the  best 
of  his  power." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  Captain.  "Mr.  Blake,  will 
you  look  at  the  figures  pencilled  on  this  piece  of  paper 
and  tell  me  if  you  made  them?" 

The  clerk,  taking  the  crumpled  sheet  of  brown 
manila  from  the  officer's  hand,  held  it  close  to  his 
near-sighted  eyes. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  TROOP  A      243 

"Why,  no.  They  ain't  mine.  But  they  are  Bill's. 
There 's  Bill's  mark."  And  he  pointed  to  a  tiny  scratch 
below  the  calculation. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Blake.  I  would  like  to  see  Bill." 

Bill,  a  dry,  methodical-looking  youth  with  a  bright 

green  necktie  and  ashen  hair,  came  alacritously, 

more  than  willing  to  take  a  taste  of  whatever  news 

was  afoot. 

"Sure,  those  are  my  figures,"  said  he,  "and  there's 
my  mark.  See?  I  put  that  on  everything." 

"Can  you  recall  what  transaction  they  represent?" 
"Yes.  I  remember  all  about  it.  There  was  a  man 
come  in  yesterday  afternoon  and  got  six  sticks  of 
dynamite  —  he  wanted  the  second  grade  —  and  this 
many  caps,  and  this  worth  of  fuse.  And  here"  — 
as  he  talked  Bill  eagerly  pointed  with  his  well-sharp- 
ened pencil  —  "here  is  the  denomination  of  the  bill 
he  give  me  to  pay  for  the  lot.  And  here 's  the  addition, 
the  subtraction,  and  the  change.  See?  And  the  man, 
he  took  the  stuff  —  I  wrapped  it  all  up  in  this  here 
brown  paper  that  I  done  the  figuring  on  —  and  he 
went  away." 

"Did  you  know  the  man?" 
"Never  saw  him  before,  Captain." 
"Can  you  remember  how  he  looked?" 
"Just  as  well  as  if  he  stood  here.   I  never  forget 
people's  looks." 

"Let's  have  his  description,  then." 

Bill,  nothing  loath  to  prove  his  boast,  launched  into 

a  careful  portrait  of  his  customer.  As  he  finished,  the 

Captain  looked  at  his  watch.  He  had  just  time  to  catch 

the  next  train,  picking  up  Sergeant  Moore  on  his  way. 


244        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

As  the  two  men  detrained  at  their  destination  the 
clock  in  the  tower  of  the  Borough  Hall  struck  eleven. 

"I  shan't  need  over  five  minutes  with  him,  proba- 
bly. Follow  me  slowly,  Sergeant,"  the  Captain  said, 
as  he  started  away  in  his  long  stride.  In  another  five 
minutes  he  stood  in  the  little  office  of  a  plumber's 
supply  shop,  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Hill. 

"I've  just  dropped  in  for  a  moment,"  he  was  say- 
ing, "knowing  how  much  you  would  be  interested  in 
the  progress  of  the  bomb  case.  I  have  a  very  hot  clue, 
very." 

"Have  you,  indeed!  I  congratulate  you.  That  is 
quick  work,  sir." 

The  old  man  withdrew  his  thin,  heavily  veined 
hand  from  the  edge  of  his  desk.  It  was  trembling 
noticeably. 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  keen  to  hear,  of  course,  — 
after  your  remarkable  share  in  the  affair.  And  by  the 
way,  Mr.  Hill,"  —  the  Captain's  manner  was  ab- 
solutely simple  and  courteous,  —  "may  I  ask  you  a 
few  minor  questions?  Did  you  ever  handle  dyna- 
mite?" 

"No.  I  have  never  used  it  at  all." 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  dynamite?" 

"Nothing." 

"No.  The  reason  I  ask  you  is  that  I  want  to  call 
your  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  detonator  should 
be  set  so  —  here  —  and  not  so."  The  Captain  was 
sketching  rapid  diagrams  on  the  back  of  an  envelope. 
"Just  take  your  lead-pencil,  open  the  stick  so  —  run 
it  down  so  —  then  close  the  dynamite  around  the 
fuse  —  and  then  it  will  be  sure  to  go  off.  The  other 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  TROOP  A       245 

way  is  quite  uncertain.  Well,  I  must  be  getting  along. 
This  is  a  busy  day.  Good-morning,  Mr.  Hill." 

The  Captain,  stepping  out  into  the  shop,  closed  the 
office  door  behind  him;  then,  in  a  moment,  he  opened 
it  again.  The  old  man  still  stood  as  he  had  risen  to 
say  good-bye.  His  face  was  ashen. 

"Mr.  Hill,  I  want  to  reassure  you  absolutely.  I 
am  going  to  get  the  fellow  that  planted  the  bomb  on 
the  lawn,  just  as  certainly  as  you  and  I  are  standing 
here.  The  evidence  now  in  my  possession  will  bring 
him,  as  sure  as  you  live.  I  don't  care  who  did  it,  I 
shall  have  him  before  ten  o'clock  to-night.  Good- 
bye again." 

The  next  errand  of  the  Captain  of  "A"  Troop 
took  him  to  the  office  of  Dr.  Hill,  where,  in  a  friendly 
talk,  he  learned  the  essential  details  of  Mr.  Hill's 
history.  Thence  he  proceeded  to  the  Burgess. 

"Burgess,"  said  he  to  that  astonished  official,  "I 
now  know  who  planted  the  bomb  last  night  on  Mr. 
Burr's  lawn.  I  want  you  to  come  down  to  Mr.  Burr's 
office  just  as  soon  as  you  and  he  can  arrange  a  meet- 
ing there.  I  will  produce  the  man." 

"Let  me  call  A.  C.  I'll  bet  he  won't  delay  the 
game  as  far  as  he's  concerned!"  exclaimed  the  Bur- 
gess, red  with  excitement.  "By  George,  this  sounds 
good  to  me!  ...  Mr.  Burr's  office?  Tell  Mr.  Burr 
the  Burgess  wants  to  speak  to  him.  ...  Oh  — 
Mr.  Burr!  We  think  we  have  the  man.  I  want  to 
see  you  at  your  office  as  soon  as  possible.  We'll  pro- 
duce him.  When?  One  o'clock?  All  right,  we'll  be 
there." 

The  Burgess  swung  away  from  the  telephone,  ela- 


246       THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

tion  in  his  face.  "By  George!"  he  exclaimed  again. 
"I  would  n't  have  believed  such  luck  possible." 

Then,  as  he  finished  the  phrase,  something  about  it 
seemed  to  dissatisfy  him.  He  took  off  his  desk-glasses 
to  look  the  Captain  the  more  clearly  in  the  eyes. 

"Maybe,"  he  ventured,  "there's  no  such  thing  as 
luck.  Don't  know  as  I  believe  there  is.  Anyway, 
we've  just  got  time  for  a  bite  of  lunch.  Come  along 
with  me." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  Captain  — -  "but  first  per- 
haps you  'd  better  call  up  Dr.  Hill.  He  must  be  pres- 
ent at  the  conference." 

"All  right,"  agreed  the  Burgess,  and  proceeded  to 
insure  the  arrangement. 

On  their  way  out  Captain  Adams  conveyed  his 
order  to  the  Sergeant:  "Bring  your  man  to  Mr. 
Burr's  office  at  quarter  after  one." 

At  one  o'clock  the  great  manufacturer  whose  home 
had  been  so  direfully  menaced  only  thirteen  hours 
before,  the  Burgess,  the  doctor,  and  the  Captain  of 
State  Police,  met  in  the  private  office  of  the  first.  It 
was  a  luxurious  office.  Heavy  rugs,  leather  lounging- 
chairs,  and  a  big  mirror  on  the  wall,  flanked  by  heads 
of  game,  gave  it  the  air  of  a  comfortable  little  room 
in  a  club. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  Captain,  as  they  all  settled 
down  to  the  business  that  had  brought  them  together, 
"I  have  to  tell  you  simply  that  the  person  who  placed 
the  bomb  on  Mr.  Burr's  lawn  is  the  man  who  first 
reported  its  presence  there  —  Mr.  Hill." 

The  doctor  was  out  of  his  chair  in  a  flash.  "What? 
Impossible!  Outrageous!  I  won't  listen  to  this!" 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  TROOP  A      247 

"Wait,  doctor,  wait!"  the  magnate  suppressed  his 
guest.  "The  Captain  must  state  his  case." 

The  Captain  rehearsed  the  original  narrative  re- 
lated by  Mr.  Hill.  "In  this,  gentlemen,  I  ask  you  to 
observe,"  he  went  on,  "first,  that  Mr.  Hill,  an  elderly 
man  of  regular  habits,  leaving  his  shop  shortly  before 
midnight  to  return  to  his  home,  was  taking  a  strangely 
circuitous  route  when  he  went  by  way  of  Mr.  Burr's 
street.  Second,  his  conduct  in  following  a  supposed 
suspicious  character  into  Mr.  Burr's  garden  was  as 
unusual  as  unwise.  Third,  according  to  Mr.  Hill's 
statement,  the  first  shot  of  his  assailant,  aimed  at  his 
head,  passed  straight  through  his  hat.  Now,  he  ex- 
hibited that  hat  to  me  at  the  Burgess's  house  this 
morning.  It  is  a  soft,  low  hat.  There  are  two  bullet 
holes  through  it.  The  powder-mark  remains  on  the 
inside.  But  Mr.  Hill's  hair  and  scalp  were  not  in  the 
slightest  degree  scorched.  Fourth,  Mr.  Hill's  statement 
leaves  no  room  for  him  to  have  touched  the  bomb 
after  he  was  shot  in  the  hand.  But  the  bomb,  when 
I  saw  it  in  the  Burgess's  office,  had  a  spot  of  fresh 
blood  upon  it." 

The  Captain  then  narrated  his  gleanings  as  to  the 
purchases  in  the  Atlas  agency,  concluding:  — 

"I  will  now  produce  Mr.  Hill.  Doctor,  of  you  I 
must  ask  that  you  keep  absolutely  quiet.  Mr.  Hill, 
I  believe,  will  confess.  Mr.  Burr,  Mr.  Hill  is  now  in 
your  outer  office,  in  charge  of  one  of  my  men.  I  will 
have  him  brought  in." 

"Oh,  I'll  keep  still,"  said  the  doctor,  "but  I  tell 
you  my  cousin  no  more  did  this  thing  than  you  did 
it  yourself.  It's  monstrous  —  inconceivable!" 


248        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

The  door  opened.  Sergeant  Moore  stood  on  the 
threshold,  followed  by  Hill.  The  Sergeant,  in  bring- 
ing him  hither,  had  represented  himself  merely  as  a 
messenger,  not  as  an  officer  of  the  State.  The  old  man, 
therefore,  had  no  realization  whatever  of  being  under 
constraint.  His  manner  was  one  of  suppressed  excite- 
ment, and  a  sort  of  child's  expectancy  lighted  his 
patient,  melancholy  face.  His  eyes  rested  eagerly  on 
Mr.  Burr.  The  Captain  spoke  first. 

"Well,  Mr.  Hill,  I  have  the  man." 

"Have  you?"  he  looked  quickly  around  the  room. 

"I  have  him  beyond  escape.  Do  you  know,  that 
rascal  actually  imagined  I  was  going  to  go  all  over  the 
country  looking  for  a  Greek,  because  his  bomb  was 
wrapped  in  a  Greek  newspaper.  Fancy  that!" 

"I  thought  he  was  a  Greek." 

"He  was  not  a  Greek,  he  was  not  an  Italian. 
Would  you  like  to  see  who  he  was?" 

"Yes." 

Gently  the  Captain  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led 
him  before  the  big  mirror.  "Do  you  recognize  him?" 

With  a  moaning  cry  the  old  man  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands. 

"You  put  that  dynamite  on  the  lawn,"  the  officer 
pursued,  in  the  same  firm,  even  tone. 

Hill  steadied  himself,  leaning  against  a  table,  grop- 
ing pitifully  for  strength  to  speak. 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  he  stammered  at  last, 
with  quivering  lips,  —  "I  have  been  thinking  it  over. 
I  want  to  tell  you  my  trouble  —  I  —  I  don't  know 
that  I  need  annoy  all  these  gentlemen  here  —  perhaps 
I  could  talk  to  you  alone,  Captain?" 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  TROOP  A      249 

"I  desire  to  hear  this  thing  through,"  the  magnate 
interposed,  and  his  voice  was  hard. 

The  old  man  shrank  as  though  from  a  blow  in  the 
face. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Hill,"  said  the  Captain  of  State 
Police,  and  led  him  to  a  chair. 

"Ten  years  ago,"  he  began,  in  a  husky  voice,  "I 
was  employed  by  a  large  ice  company  in  a  responsible 
position.  One  day  it  happened  that  I  walked  into  one 
of  our  storage  houses  just  in  time  to  see  the  end  of  a 
fight.  Two  Greek  laborers  had  been  bitterly  quarrel- 
ling. They  had  gone  into  that  ice-house  to  fight  it  out 
in  secret.  One  stabbed  the  other,  killing  him.  And, 
just  as  the  blow  fell,  I  opened  the  door.  There  was  no 
one  else  there  —  no  other  witness.  When  the  murderer 
saw  me,  he  sprang  for  me  and  pulled  me  inside. 

"'If  you  ever  dare  to  tell,  I  will  swear  I  saw  you 
kill  him ! '  he  said,  and  he  shook  his  bloody  knife. 

"  Now,  it  chanced  by  my  great  misfortune  that  I 
had  had  a  dispute  with  the  man  that  lay  dead.  Every 
one  knew  that.  And  I  thought  that  if  I  were  accused 
of  his  murder,  it  would  be  believed  against  me.  I  was 
afraid.  So  from  that  time  I  have  been  in  the  Greek's 
power.  He  has  made  me  do  everything." 

"What  has  he  made  you  do?"  Captain  Adams 
asked  quietly. 

"He  has  made  me  give  him  money.  He  has  driven 
me  from  one  job  to  another.  Finally,  last  night,  he 
came  to  me  in  my  store  and  said  I  must  go  with  him. 
He  led  me  to  Mr.  Burr's  place,  telling  me  nothing. 
When  we  got  there,  he  took  me  in,  through  the 
shrubs,  and  gave  me  the  bomb  to  place. 


250        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"I  was  forced  to  obey  him.  The  Greek  would  have 
killed  me  if  I  refused.  I  was  afraid  that  even  if  I  pro- 
tested he  would  turn  around  and  kill  me  right  there. 
But  when  we  actually  got  to  the  point,  I  thought  of 
Mr.  Burr  and  his  house  and  his  family,  and  I  just 
could  not  do  it. 

"We  had  a  fight,  right  there  on  the  lawn  —  and 
after  he  shot  me  he  ran  away.  Then  I  ran  to  the 
police,  hoping  they  would  catch  him.  But  I  did  not 
dare  to  tell  about  the  Greek  himself,  because  I  knew 
that  if  I  told,  and  they  did  n't  catch  him,  but  only 
raised  a  vain  hue  and  cry,  he  would  certainly  know 
and  take  his  revenge  on  me." 

The  old  man  stopped,  exhausted,  his  breath  coming 
heavily.  He  was  clasping  his  hands  so  tight  that  the 
knuckles  shone  yellow  through  the  stretched  skin. 

"Mr.  Hill,"  said  the  Captain  gravely,  "you  missed 
your  calling.  You  should  have  written  books.  Now  / 
will  tell  you  a  story:  — 

"Your  business  has  not  been  going  any  too  well  of 
late.  You  have  not  been  making  any  too  much 
money.  You  have  been  worried.  One  day,  as  you 
were  passing  Mr.  Burr's  residence,  this  came  into 
your  mind:  — 

"'If  I  could  get  a  steady  job,  employed  in  Mr. 
Burr's  plant,  I  should  be  pretty  well  fixed  for  the  rest 
of  my  life.' 

"You  did  n't  know  how  to  get  the  job,  and  your 
imagination  again  said  to  you:  — 

"  'Now,  if  I  saw  a  man  trying  to  blow  up  this  house, 
—  if  I  saw  anybody  doing  that,  —  I  would  just  grap- 
ple with  him  and  stop  him,  and  that  would  gain  Mr. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  TROOP  A      251 

Burr's  gratitude.  Then,  if  I  asked  for  it,  Mr.  Burr 
would  probably  give  me  a  position,  and  I  would  be 
out  of  fear  of  need  forever  after  —  I  would  be  safe/ 

"Wishing  that  somebody,  by  happy  chance,  would 
give  you  the  opportunity,  you  walked  on,  slowly,  past 
the  house.  But  nobody  appeared.  Nobody  tried  to 
blow  the  place  up. 

"Next  you  thought:  'Why  can't  I  stage  something 
like  that?' 

"The  more  you  dwelt  on  the  idea,  the  more  feasible 
it  seemed.  Finally,  you  actually  went  to  the  city,  to 
the  Atlas  Company's  agency,  and  bought  six  sticks 
of  dynamite,  three  primers,  three  fuses.  That  was 
yesterday.  Then,  last  evening,  you  made  up  the 
bomb. 

"For  the  rest,  you  held  your  hat  before  you  while 
you  fired  a  revolver  shot  through  it.  And  next,  you 
carefully  placed  your  revolver  against  the  palm  of 
your  hand  where  a  shot  would  cripple  you  least,  and 
fired  through  the  fleshy  part. 

"Then  you  told  your  story,  hoping  to  get  a  job  out 
of  it.  Is  n't  that  right?" 

The  old  man's  head  was  hanging  on  his  breast.  All 
the  life  seemed  gone  out  of  his  whole  body. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured,  "yes." 

"Sergeant,"  said  the  Captain,  "you  will  take  Mr. 
Hill  back  to  the  outer  office." 

Trembling  like  one  sick  of  a  palsy,  the  old  man  let 
himself  be  led  from  the  room. 

As  the  door  closed  after  him,  the  doctor  broke 
silence  first. 

"And  he  my  cousin!  I  never  would  have  believed 


252        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

it!  But  you"  —  he  was  confronting  the  Captain  now 
—  "where  did  you  get  all  that  stuff?  Not  from  me. 
I  only  told  you  he  had  lost  money  and  that  his  busi- 
ness was  poor  —  and  that  he  was  weak  about  his 
wife,  that's  all." 

"And  the  rest,"  said  the  Captain,  "is  written  in 
his  face." 

The  magnate  sat  speechless,  while  something  about 
him  proclaimed  that  the  conference  was  at  an  end. 

"Wait  a  moment,  Captain,  can  you?"  He  laid  a 
detaining  hand  on  the  soldier's  arm  as  the  others 
took  their  leave.  "I'd  like  another  word  with  you 
before  you  go." 

As  the  door  closed,  he  drew  a  chair  close  to  his 
own. 

"Sit  down  again,"  said  he.  "Do  you  know,  it 
makes  me  fairly  sick  to  think  how  nearly  that  old 
villain's  scheme  succeeded.  Just  this  very  morning, 
my  wife  and  I  were  planning  what  we'd  do  for  him. 
And  a  good,  easy,  permanent  job  was  part  of  it,  if 
you'll  believe  it.  Ah-h!"  And  he  gave  a  shiver  of 
disgust. 

"But  now,  Captain,  I  want  him  to  get  the  maxi- 
mum punishment  that  the  law  provides.  We'll  make 
an  example  of  him  if  there's  any  common  sense  in  the 
Courts  of  Pennsylvania.  This  kind  of  thing  can't  be 
handled  with  gloves,  I  tell  you!"  —  and  he  struck  a 
savage  blow  upon  the  desk  at  his  side.  "Now,  then, 
what's  the  law?" 

"Mr.  Burr,"  the  Captain  replied,  "I  don't  in  the 
least  wonder  at  your  feeling  as  you  do.  But  I  will  ask 
your  attention  to  certain  aspects  of  the  case.  First, 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  TROOP  A      253 

very  curiously,  the  worst  that  you  can  prosecute  him 
for  is  transporting  dynamite  on  a  railroad  track.  He 
meant  no  crime.  He  never  intended  putting  dyna- 
mite in  your  house.  No  injury  was  ever  meant  to 
you  or  yours. 

"But  aside  from  that  I  want  to  tell  you  a  little 
about  the  man  —  more  than  it  was  necessary  to  make 
him  endure.  He  is  at  heart  as  innocent  as  a  child.  He 
has  a  considerable  degree  of  breeding  and  education, 
and  in  his  earlier  years  possessed  ability  and  com- 
fortable means.  But  he  was  always  a  dreamer.  Little 
by  little  his  money  filtered  away.  He  never  saw 
things  except  in  the  clouds,  floating  to  castles  in 
Spain.  He  could  never  compete  with  harder-headed 
men. 

"Now,  all  that  he  had  is  gone.  His  present  business 
is  a  mere  shell.  He  has  a  wife  —  the  wife  of  his  youth, 
grown  old,  in  frail  health,  not  long  to  live.  He  is  as 
devoted  to  her  as  a  lover,  and  has  strained  every 
nerve  to  give  her  the  little  comforts  that  make  her 
life.  He  could  never  persuade  himself  to  let  her  into 
the  open  secret  of  his  slow  descent  into  poverty.  He 
thought  it  would  break  his  heart  to  have  her  find  it 
out. 

"But  now  came  the  time  when  the  wolf  was  actu- 
ally clawing  at  the  door.  He  had  tried  every  expedi- 
ent, every  resource,  every  avenue  to  paying  work 
within  his  ken.  No  use.  Nobody  with  money  to  pay 
for  labor,  even  the  simplest,  wanted  him.  He  was 
too  weak,  too  slow,  too  old.  He  had  not  the  smallest 
value  anywhere  —  not  the  smallest  place.  He  could 
not  keep  the  truth  from  her  much  longer.  Soon  she 


254        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

must  see  that  he  could  not  even  buy  her  shelter  and 
bread. 

"So,  being  a  dreamer,  —  a  man  of  eternal  hopes 
and  faith,  —  he  dreamed  once  more,  and  with  a  brain 
almost  unhinged  by  sorrow.  And  you  have  already 
heard  the  rest. 

"No,  Mr.  Burr,  you  can  prosecute  if  you  like,  and 
punish  him  as  far  as  the  law  will  go.  But  I  would 
rather  see  you  take  another  course." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  growled  the 
magnate. 

"Why,  if  I  were  you"  —  the  Captain  smiled  whim- 
sically at  the  thought  —  "if  I  were  you  —  it  seems 
to  me  that  this  is  what  I'd  do:  I  would  send  that 
heart-broken,  nerve-shattered,  harmless  old  man  to 
some  good  sanitarium  until  such  time  as  he  shall  have 
regained  his  normal  balance  —  for  it  is  more  than 
tottering  now.  I'd  be  guided  by  conditions  as  they 
should  develop,  in  the  next  step  regarding  him.  And, 
meantime,  I  would  set  his  mind  completely  at  rest 
as  to  his  wife. 

"And  I'd  never  let  a  single  soul  know  one  word  con- 
cerning any  of  it." 

The  speaker  stopped,  watching  the  magnate  with 
sombre  eyes.  The  magnate  frowningly  stared  at  his 
finger-nails  —  at  the  floor.  At  last  he  looked  up. 

"Confound  it  all,  I  suppose  you're  right,"  he 
barked.  "Might  as  well  get  some  satisfaction  out  of 
such  an  ungodly  mess!" 

As  the  Captain  stepped  into  the  street,  the  Burgess 
joined  him. 

"Been  hanging  around  like  a  dude  at  the  stage- 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  TROOP  A      255 

door,"  he  grinned  shame-facedly.  "What's  going  to 
be  done?" 

"There'll  be  no  prosecution  —  nor  any  news." 
"You  don't  mean  it!  Well,  I  am  glad!  Mighty  de- 
cent of  A.  C.,  I  must  say.    And,  great  Heavens! 
Think  what  it  will  mean  to  Dr.  Hill  and  all  the  con- 
nection! A  family  of  that  position!" 

"'A  family  —  of  that  —  position,'"  the  Captain 
of  "A"  Troop  repeated  slowly.  "Well,  I  confess  I'd 
only  been  thinking  of  the  poor  old  man." 


XI 

ACCORDING  TO  CODE 

THIRST  SERGEANT  STOUT,  of  "A"  Troop,  be- 
•••  comes  his  name  like  any  hero  of  English  ballad. 
First  Sergeant  Stout  is  towering  tall,  and  broad  and 
sinewy  in  proportion.  There  is  not  a  meagre  thing 
about  him,  from  his  heart  and  his  smile  to  the  grip 
of  his  hand,  whether  in  strangle-hold  or  in  greeting. 
Just  as  he  stands,  he  might  have  roamed  the  woods 
with  Robin  Hood,  or  fought  on  the  field  of  Crecy  in 
the  morning  of  the  world. 

But  First  Sergeant  Stout  has  one  peculiarity  that, 
in  the  morning  of  the  world,  could  never  have  marked 
him.  Sometimes,  when  he  turns  his  head  to  right  or  to 
left,  his  head  sticks  fast  that  way  until  he  takes  it 
between  his  two  hands  and  lifts  it  back  again;  and 
the  reason  is  that  he  carries  a  bullet  close  to  his  spinal 
cord,  lodged  between  the  first  and  second  vertebrae. 

Once  upon  a  time  Sergeant  Stout  had  charge  of  a 
sub-station  in  the  town  of  Unionville,  County  Fay- 
ette.  And  among  those  days  came  a  night  when,  at 
exactly  a  quarter  after  ten  o'clock,  the  sub-station 
telephone  rang  determinedly. 

Nothing  of  the  novel  distinguished  the  incident, 
since  that  sub-station  telephone  was  always  deter- 
minedly ringing,  day  and  night,  to  the  tune  of 
somebody's  troubles.  But  this  time  the  thing  was 
vicariously  expressed;  or,  you  might  call  it,  feebly 
conglomerate. 


ACCORDING  TO  CODE  257 

The  Constable  of  the  village  of  Republic  held 
the  wire.  He  complained  that  one  Charles  Erhart, 
drunken  and  violent,  had  beaten  his  wife,  had  driven 
her  and  their  children  out  of  doors,  and  was  now  en- 
trenched in  the  house  with  the  black  flag  flying. 

"She's  given  me  a  warrant  to  arrest  the  man,  but 
I  can't  do  it,"  moaned  the  Constable.  "He'll  shoot 
me  if  I  try.  So  I  thought  some  of  you  fellers  might 
like  to  come  over  and  tackle  him." 

The  Sergeant  looked  at  his  watch.  "The  trolley 
leaves  in  fifteen  minutes,"  said  he:  "I'll  be  up  on 
that." 

The  trolley  left  Unionville  at  half  after  ten,  reach- 
ing Republic,  the  end  of  the  line,  just  one  hour  later. 

"Last  run  for  the  night,"  the  motorman  remarked 
as  they  sighted  the  terminus. 

"I  know.  And  I've  only  about  half  an  hour's  busi- 
ness to  do  here.  Then  I'd  like  to  get  back.  Do  you 
think  you  could  wait?" 

"Sure,"  said  motorman  and  conductor  together. 
"Glad  to  do  it  for  you,  Sergeant." 

Hovering  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  at  the  "'s- 
far-'s-we-go"  point,  hung  the  Constable  —  a  little 
man,  nervous  and  deprecatory.  Religious  pedagogy 
would  have  been  more  in  his  line  than  the  enforce- 
ment of  law.  Now  he  was  depressed  by  a  threatened 
lumbago,  and  by  the  abnormal  hours  that  his  duty 
was  inflicting  upon  him.  Also  he  was  worried  by  the 
present  disturbance  in  his  bailiwick,  and  therefore 
sincerely  relieved  to  see  an  officer  of  State  Police. 

"He's  a  bad  one,  that  Charlie  Erhart,  at  the  best 
of  times.  And  when  he 's  drunk  he 's  awful.  I  could  n't 


258        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

pretend  to  handle  him  —  it  would  n't  be  safe.  Like's 
not  he'd  hurt  me.  But  you,"  —  as  if  struck  by  a  new 
thought  the  Constable  suddenly  stopped  in  his  tracks 
to  turn  and  stare  at  the  Sergeant,  —  "Why,  you  — 
why,  I  thought  you'd  bring  a  squad!" 

"To  arrest  one  man?"  the  Sergeant  inquired 
gravely.  "Well,  you  see  we're  rather  busy  just  now, 
so  we  have  to  spread  ourselves  out." 

They  were  walking  rapidly  through  the  midnight 
streets,  turning  corners,  here  and  again,  into  darker 
and  narrower  quarters.  The  ring  of  their  steps  stood 
out  upon  the  silence  with  a  lone  and  chiselled  clarity, 
as  though  all  the  rest  of  the  world  had  fled  to  the 
moon.  Yet,  to  the  Constable's  twittering  mind,  that 
very  silence  teemed  with  a  horrible  imminence.  The 
blackness  in  each  succeeding  alley  seemed  coiled  to 
leap  at  him.  He  dared  neither  to  face  it  nor  to  leave 
it  at  his  back. 

His  gait  began  to  slacken,  to  falter.  At  last  he 
stopped. 

"I  guess  I'll  leave  you  here."  He  flung  out  the 
words  in  a  heap,  as  if  to  smother  his  scruples.  "You 
just  go  on  down  the  street,  then  take  the  second  turn 
to  the  left,  and  the  house  is  on  the  far  side,  third  from 
the  corner.  You  can't  miss  it.  And  my  lumbago's 
coming  on  so  fast  I  guess  I  '11  have  to  get  home  to  bed. 
Glad  you  came,  anyway.  Good-night  to  you." 

"Wait  a  moment!"  said  the  Sergeant.  "If  you  are 
not  coming  along,  I  want  to  see  the  woman  before  I 
go  farther." 

The  Constable  indicated  the  tenement  house  in 
which  the  fugitive  family  had  taken  refuge.  Then, 


ACCORDING  TO  CODE  259 

like  a  rabbit  afraid  of  being  caught  by  its  long  ears, 
he  whisked  around  and  vanished  into  the  dark. 

Mrs.  Erhart,  nursing  a  swollen  eye  and  a  cut  cheek, 
clutching  a  wailing  baby  in  her  arms  and  with  a  clus- 
ter of  half-clad,  half-starved,  wholly  frightened  and 
miserable  children  shivering  around  her,  narrated  her 
tale  without  reserve.  The  single  little  lamp  in  the 
room,  by  its  wretched  light,  showed  her  battered  face 
in  tragic  planes.  Her  voice  was  hoarse,  hard,  monot- 
onous. She  had  no  more  hopes,  no  more  illusion,  no 
more  shame. 

"He  has  tried  to  kill  us  all  —  me  and  the  children  — 
often.  He  does  n't  get  helpless  drunk.  He  gets  mad 
drunk.  Some  day  he  mil  kill  us,  I  guess.  There's 
naught  to  prevent  him.  Do  I  want  him  arrested? 
Yes,  sir,  I  do  that!  He's  tried  to  take  our  lives  this 
very  night.  And  he's  keeping  us  out  of  all  the  home 
we've  got  —  all  the  home  we've  got. 

"But"  —  and  she  looked  up  with  a  sudden  strange 
flicker  of  feeling  akin  to  pride  —  "I  reckon  he'll  kill 
you  if  you  try  to  touch  him,  big  as  you  are.  He  sure 
will!  Erhart 's  a  terror,  he  is!  And  to-day  he's  cut 
loose  for  a  fact." 

Armed  now  with  indisputable  grounds  for  entering 
the  house,  Sergeant  Stout  went  ahead  with  his  errand. 
The  place,  when  he  found  it,  proved  to  have  a  nar- 
row passageway  running  from  the  street  to  its  back 
door.  Sergeant  Stout,  taking  the  passageway,  walked 
quietly  around  to  the  back  door  and  knocked. 

"Who's  there?" 

"State  Police." 

"You  don't  get  in !" 


260        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

The  voice  was  loose,  flat,  blaring  —  a  foolish,  vio- 
lent voice. 

The  Sergeant  set  his  shoulder  against  the  door.  It 
groaned,  creaked,  splintered,  gave  way,  opening  di- 
rectly into  the  kitchen.  Confusion  filled  the  place. 
Broken  furniture,  smashed  dishes,  messes  of  scat- 
tered food,  made  in  the  smudgy  lamp's  dim  light  a 
scene  to  be  grasped  at  a  glance. 

But  there  was  no  time  to  look  about.  Directly  at 
hand,  half-crouching,  lurching  sidewise  for  the  spring 
of  attack,  lowered  a  big,  evil-visaged  hulk  of  a  man. 
His  eyes  were  red,  inflamed  with  rage  and  drink,  his 
breath  came  in  gusts,  like  the  breath  of  an  angry  bull. 

"You  would,  would  you!  You  —  bloody  —  Cos- 
sack! I9 II  learn  you  to  interfere  with  the  rights  of  an 
honest  laboring  man  in  his  home!" 

He  held  his  right  hand  behind  him  as  he  spoke. 
Now  he  jerked  it  forward,  with  its  gun. 

With  a  jump  the  Sergeant  grabbed  him,  wrenched 
the  revolver  out  of  his  grip,  and,  though  the  other 
struggled  with  all  his  brute  strength,  forced  him 
steadily  down  to  the  floor.  Then,  with  practised 
touch,  he  made  search  for  further  weapons,  and  was 
already  locking  the  handcuffs  on  the  wrists  of  the 
prostrate  prisoner  when  a  voice  from  beyond  made 
him  raise  his  head. 

Opposite  the  back  entrance,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  kitchen,  an  open  doorway  framed  the  blackness 
of  the  front  room.  That  doorway  had  been  empty. 
But  now,  around  its  casement,  and  to  the  left  as  the 
Sergeant  faced  it,  projected  a  long,  dully  gleaming 
bar  —  the  barrel  of  a  rifle,  while  behind,  faint  against 


ACCORDING  TO  CODE  261 

the  night  within,  showed  the  left  hand  and  the  left 
eye  of  the  gunman. 

"You!"  he  had  called,  having  already  brought  his 
rifle  to  bear. 

And  the  Sergeant,  stooping  above  his  fallen  assail- 
ant, had  looked  up  in  quick  attention. 

The  gunman  had  wanted  a  better  mark  —  a  full 
front  face  to  fire  at.  He  had  it  now  —  so  he  blazed 
away.  The  bullet  struck  fair  between  the  Trooper's 
eyes,  tearing  through  to  the  spine. 

But  because  he  had  chanced  to  receive  it  in  that 
very  position,  stooping  and  looking  up  with  his  head 
half-raised,  the  charge  had  spared  the  chamber  of 
the  brain,  passing  along  its  lower  wall.  The  shock, 
nevertheless,  was  terrific. 

Sergeant  Stout,  rightly  named,  never  wavered.  In- 
stantaneously, in  his  first  perception  of  the  threat 
beyond,  he  had  drawn  his  service  Colt.  And  even 
as  the  other's  bullet  burst  through  his  head  he  had 
sprung  erect  and  fired  at  the  gleam  of  that  one  visible 
eye  beyond  the  door.  Now,  sliding  over  to  the  wall  on 
the  right,  and  so  gaining  a  farther  view  into  the  room, 
he  covered  his  adversary  with  his  revolver. 

The  gunman  was  in  the  very  motion  of  firing  again 
—  and  the  Trooper's  Colt  would  have  anticipated 
the  shot  —  when  suddenly  the  rifle  barrel  wavered 
and  dropped  as  its  holder  sank  forward  across  the 
threshold. 

Still  covering  him,  the  Sergeant  walked  over  and 
looked  at  the  man.  He  had  fainted  —  or  was  feigning 
it.  The  Sergeant,  kneeling  beside  him,  saw  that  he 
was  bleeding  from  the  head.  That  snap  revolver  shot 


262       THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

had  gone  true,  striking  just  above  the  eye  and  glanc- 
ing around  to  the  back  of  the  skull.  But  the  soldier's 
trained  touch  told  him  that  the  wound  was  slight. 
Even  on  the  instant  the  fallen  man  opened  his  eyes 
—  began  to  stir.  In  another  minute  he  would  be  all 
alive  again. 

The  Sergeant  stood  up.  In  the  cool,  impersonal 
way  made  second  nature  by  the  training  of  the  Force, 
he  rapidly  weighed  the  situation.  Here  was  he,  Ser- 
geant Stout,  of  the  Pennsylvania  State  Police,  at  mid- 
night, alone,  in  the  back  room  of  an  obscure  dwelling 
in  a  mean  place.  He  had  in  his  possession  two  pris- 
oners —  one  handcuffed  and  cowed,  the  other  for  the 
moment  safe  by  reason  of  a  rapidly  passing  daze. 

If  this  were  all,  the  situation  would  be  of  an  ex- 
treme simplicity.  His  second  prisoner  revived,  he 
would  march  them  both  to  the  waiting  trolley  and 
take  them  back  to  Union ville  Jail. 

But  this  was  not  quite  all :  He,  Sergeant  Stout,  had 
been  shot  through  the  head.  His  head  seemed  to  be 
growing  bigger,  bigger.  Blood  was  pouring  down  his 
throat  in  a  steady  stream.  It  would  make  him  sick 
if  he  stopped  to  think  of  it  —  and  his  head  was  grow- 
ing bigger  —  curiously  bigger. 

Presumably,  like  other  persons  shot  through  the 
head,  he  would  presently  die.  If  he  died  before  he 
handed  these  men  over  into  safe-keeping,  that  would 
be  a  pity,  because  they  would  get  away. 

Further,  if  he  could  not  maintain  sufficient  grip  on 
himself  to  handle  prisoner  number  two,  prisoner  num- 
ber two,  beyond  any  doubt,  would  shortly  shoot 
again.  As  long,  however,  as  he  did  keep  that  grip 


ACCORDING  TO  CODE  263 

on  himself,  just  so  long  prisoner  number  two  was  a 
"prisoner  under  control." 

And  prisoners  under  control,  by  the  code  of  the 
Force,  must  be  protected  by  their  captors. 

Obviously,  then,  there  was  just  one  course  for 
Sergeant  Stout  to  pursue:  Since  he  must,  beyond 
question,  complete  these  arrests,  and  since  he  must 
not  permit  his  second  captive  to  make  the  move  that 
would  justify  disabling  him,  he  must  hang  on  to  his 
own  life  and  wavering  senses  long  enough  to  march 
the  two  men  to  that  trolley-car. 

It  had  to  be  done  —  though  his  head  was  growing 
bigger  —  bigger  —  (surely  it  must  be  spreading  the 
skull  apart!)  and  the  thick,  choking  blood  was  pour- 
ing down  his  throat. 

He  kicked  the  rifle  away  from  the  threshold,  out  of 
the  left-handed  gunman's  reach.  The  gunman  was 
moving  now  —  consciousness  fully  returned.  The 
Sergeant,  motioning  with  the  point  of  his  Colt, 
brought  him  up  standing.  Then,  with  another  gesture 
of  his  revolver  too  simple  to  be  misunderstood,  he  in- 
dicated to  the  two  the  door  to  the  street. 

It  must  have  seemed  to  them  like  taking  orders  from 
a  spectre  —  from  one  of  those  awful  beings  through 
whose  charmed  substance  bullets  pass  without  effect. 

They  looked  at  him  aslant,  fearfully.  This  Presence 
had  been  shot  through  its  brain,  —  there  was  the 
mark,  —  yet  it  gave  no  sign  of  human  vulnerability. 
It  was  not  good  —  not  natural ! 

For  the  last  hour,  they  had  been  amusing  them- 
selves, this  well-met  pair,  by  firing  at  a  mark  on  the 
inner  kitchen  wall.  Their  bullets  had  been  strik- 


264        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

ing  through  into  the  dwelling  next  door,  arousing  a 
spicy  echo  of  womens'  screams.  With  relish  they  had 
awaited  some  attempt  at  restraint.  But  they  had 
not  expected  just  this! 

Scarcely  daring  to  meet  each  other's  eyes,  they 
filed  out  of  the  door,  into  the  yard,  into  the  street. 
But  they  did  not  guess  how  the  Trooper's  head  was 
sailing. 

"I've  got  to  make  it!"  said  the  Sergeant  to  him- 
self, clenching  his  teeth.  And  he  would  not  think  how 
many  blocks  it  was  to  "'s-far-'s-we-go." 

"One  block  at  a  time '11  do  it,"  he  told  himself. 
One  block  at  a  time,  he  was  steering  them  rapidly 
along  —  when,  upon  his  unsteady  hearing  broke  the 
sound  of  footsteps,  approaching  on  the  run. 

"Another  thug  to  their  rescue,  maybe!"  thought 
the  Sergeant  —  and  the  idea  pulled  him  together 
with  a  jerk. 

As  the  footsteps  rang  close,  he  held  himself  braced 
for  an  onset.  They  neared  the  corner  ahead.  His  Colt 
waited  ready.  But  the  flying  figure,  rounding  under 
the  street-lamp,  showed,  blessed  be  Heaven!  the  uni- 
form of  the  Pennsylvania  State  Police. 

Trooper  Lithgow,  returning  to  the  sub-station 
from  detached  duty,  and  passing  through  the  town 
of  Republic,  had  learned  from  the  waiting  trolley- 
men  of  his  Sergeant's  presence,  with  some  hint  of  the 
errand  that  had  brought  him  there.  Thinking  that 
help  might  not  be  amiss,  he  had  started  out  to  join 
his  officer,  and  was  hastening  along  the  way  when  the 
sound  of  the  two  shots,  distinct  on  the  midnight  si- 
lence, had  turned  his  stride  to  a  run. 


ACCORDING  TO  CODE  265 

Together  they  walked  to  the  trolley,  herding  the 
prisoners  before  them.  Together  they  rode  to  Union- 
ville,  with  the  prisoners  between  them.  From  time  to 
time  the  two  trolley-men  looked  at  Sergeant  Stout, 
with  the  bleeding  hole  between  his  eyes,  then  looked 
at  each  other,  and  said  nothing. 

More  rarely,  Trooper  Lithgow  looked  at  Sergeant 
Stout,  then  at  the  trolley-men,  but  said  nothing.  A 
proud  man  he  was  that  night.  But  he  did  not  want 
those  trolley-men  to  know  it.  He  wanted  them  to  see 
and  to  understand  for  all  time  that  this  thing  was  a 
matter  of  course  —  that  you  can't  down  an  officer  of 
the  Pennsylvania  State  Police  on  duty. 

They  got  their  two  prisoners  jailed.  Then  they 
walked  over  to  the  hospital  (the  last  lift  of  the  way 
up  the  hospital  hill,  Lithgow  lent  a  steadying  arm) 
—  and  there,  in  the  doctor's  presence,  Sergeant  Stout 
gently  collapsed. 

"I'm  glad  you  came,  Lithgow.  But  you  see  —  I 
could  have  fetched  it!"  he  said,  with  the  makings  of  a 
grin,  just  before  he  went  over. 

There  were  four  days  when  he  might  have  died. 
Then  his  own  nature  laid  hold  on  him  and  lifted  him 
back  again  into  the  world  of  sunshine. 

"It's  one  of  those  super-cures  effected  by  pure 
optimism.  The  man  expected  to  get  well,"  the  sur- 
geon said. 

But  they  dared  not  cut  for  the  bullet.  It  lay  too 
close  to  the  spinal  cord.  And  so  First  Sergeant  Stout, 
when  his  head  gets  stuck  fast,  has  yet  to  take  it  in  his 
two  hands  and  shift  it  free  again.  Still,  with  a  head 
as  steady  as  that,  what  does  it  matter? 


xn 

JOHNG. 

IT  was  nine  o'clock  of  a  wild  night  in  December. 
For  forty-eight  hours  it  had  been  raining,  raining, 
raining,  after  a  heavy  fall  of  snow.  Still  the  torrents 
descended,  lashed  by  a  screaming  wind,  and  the  song 
of  rushing  water  mingled  with  the  cry  of  the  gale. 
Each  steep  street  of  the  hill-town  of  Greensburg  lay 
inches  deep  under  a  tearing  flood.  The  cold  was  as 
great  as  cold  may  be  while  rain  is  falling.  A  night  to 
give  thanks  for  shelter  overhead,  and  to  hug  the 
hearth  with  gratitude. 

First  Sergeant  Price,  at  his  desk  in  the  Barracks 
office,  was  honorably  grinding  law.  Most  honorably, 
because,  when  he  had  gone  to  take  the  book  from  its 
shelf  in  the  day-room,  "Barrack-Room  Ballads"  had 
smiled  down  upon  him  with  a  heart-aching  echo  of 
the  soft,  familiar  East;  so  that  of  a  sudden  he  had 
fairly  smelt  the  sweet,  strange,  heathen  smell  of  the 
temples  in  Tien  Tsin  —  had  seen  the  flash  of  a  par- 
rot's wing  in  the  bolo-toothed  Philippine  jungle.  And 
the  sight  and  the  smell,  on  a  night  like  this,  were 
enough  to  make  any  man  lonely. 

Therefore  it  was  with  honor  indeed  that,  instead  of 
dreaming  off  into  the  radiant  past  through  the  well- 
thumbed  book  of  magic,  he  was  digging  between  dull 
sheepskin  covers  after  the  key  to  the  bar  of  the  State, 
on  which  his  will  was  fixed. 

Now,  a  man  who,  being  a  member  of  the  Pennsyl- 


JOHN  G.  267 

vania  State  Police,  aspires  to  qualify  for  admission  to 
the  bar,  has  his  work  cut  out  for  him.  The  calls  of 
his  regular  duty,  endless  in  number  and  kind,  leave 
him  no  certain  leisure,  and  few  and  broken  are  the 
hours  that  he  gets  for  books. 

"Confound  the  Latin!"  grumbled  the  Sergeant, 
grabbing  his  head  in  his  two  hands.  "Well  —  any- 
way, here's  my  night  for  it.  Even  the  crooks  will  lie 
snug  in  weather  like  this."  And  he  took  a  fresh  hold 
on  the  poser. 

Suddenly  "buzz"  went  the  bell  beside  him.  Before 
its  voice  ceased  he  stood  at  salute  in  the  door  of  the 
Captain's  office. 

"Sergeant,"  said  Captain  Adams,  with  a  half-turn 
of  his  desk-chair,  "how  soon  can  you  take  the  field?" 

"Five  minutes,  sir." 

"There's  trouble  over  in  the  foundry  town.  The 
local  authorities  have  jailed  some  I.W.W.  plotters. 
They  state  that  a  jail  delivery  is  threatened,  that  the 
Sheriff  can't  control  it,  and  that  they  believe  the  mob 
will  run  amuck  generally  and  shoot  up  the  town.  Take 
a  few  men;  go  over  and  attend  to  it." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

In  the  time  that  goes  to  saddling  a  horse,  the  detail 
rode  into  the  storm,  First  Sergeant  Price,  on  John 
G.,  leading. 

John  G.  had  belonged  to  the  Force  exactly  as  long 
as  had  the  First  Sergeant  himself,  which  was  from  the 
dawn  of  the  Force's  existence.  And  John  G.  is  a  gen- 
tleman and  a  soldier,  every  inch  of  him.  Horse-show 
judges  have  affixed  their  seal  to  the  self-evident  fact 
by  the  sign  of  the  blue  ribbon,  but  the  best  proof  lies 


268        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

in  the  personal  knowledge  of  "A"  Troop,  soundly 
built  on  twelve  years'  brotherhood.  John  G.,  on  that 
diluvian  night,  was  twenty-two  years  old,  and  still 
every  whit  as  clean-limbed,  alert,  and  plucky  as  his 
salad  days  had  seen  him. 

Men  and  horses  dived  into  the  gale  as  swimmers 
dive  into  a  breaker.  It  beat  their  eyes  shut,  with 
wind  and  driven  water,  and,  as  they  slid  down 
the  harp-pitched  city  streets,  the  flood  banked  up 
against  each  planted  hoof  till  it  split  in  folds  above 
the  fetlock. 

Down  in  the  country  beyond,  mud,  slush,  and  water 
clogged  with  chunks  of  frost-stricken  clay  made 
worse  and  still  worse  going.  And  so  they  pushed  on 
through  blackest  turmoil  toward  the  river  road  that 
should  be  their  highway  to  Logan's  Ferry. 

They  reached  that  road  at  last,  only  to  find  it  as 
lost  as  Atlantis,  under  twenty  feet  of  water!  The  Alle- 
gheny had  overflowed  her  banks,  and  now  there  re- 
mained no  way  across,  short  of  following  the  stream 
up  to  Pittsburgh  and  so  around,  a  detour  of  many 
miles,  long  and  evil. 

"And  that,"  said  First  Sergeant  Price,  "means  get- 
ting to  the  party  about  four  hours  late.  Baby-talk  and 
nonsense!  By  that  time  they  might  have  burned  the 
place  and  killed  all  the  people  in  it.  Let's  see,  now: 
there 's  a  railroad  bridge  close  along  here,  somewhere." 

They  scouted  till  they  found  the  bridge.  But  be- 
hold, its  floor  was  of  cross-ties  only  —  of  sleepers  to 
carry  the  rails,  laid  with  wide  breaks  between,  gap- 
ing down  into  deep,  dark  space  whose  bed  was  the 
roaring  river. 


JOHN  G.  269 

"Nevertheless,"  said  First  Sergeant  Price,  whose 
spirits  ever  soar  at  the  foolish  onslaughts  of  trouble 
—  "nevertheless,  we're  not  going  to  ride  twenty  miles 
farther  for  nothing.  There's  a  railroad  yard  on  the 
other  side.  This  bridge,  here,  runs  straight  into  it. 
You  two  men  go  over,  get  a  couple  of  good  planks, 
and  find  out  when  the  next  train  is  due." 

The  two  Troopers  whom  the  Sergeant  indicated 
gave  their  horses  to  a  comrade  and  started  away 
across  the  trestle. 

For  a  moment  those  who  stayed  behind  could  dis- 
tinguish the  rays  of  their  pocket  flash-lights  as  they 
picked  out  their  slimy  foothold.  Then  the  whirling 
night  engulfed  them,  lights  and  all. 

The  Sergeant  led  the  remainder  of  the  detail  down 
into  the  lee  of  an  abutment,  to  avoid  the  full  drive  of 
the  storm.  Awhile  they  stood  waiting,  huddled  to- 
gether. But  the  wait  was  not  for  long.  Presently, 
like  a  code  signal  spelled  out  on  the  black  overhead, 
came  a  series  of  steadily  lengthening  flashes  —  the 
pocket-light  glancing  between  the  sleepers,  as  the 
returning  messengers  drew  near. 

Scrambling  up  to  rail  level,  the  Sergeant  saw  with 
content  that  his  emissaries  bore  on  their  shoulders 
between  them  two  new  pine  "two-by-twelves." 

"No  train's  due  till  five  o'clock  in  the  morning," 
reported  the  first  across. 

"Good!  Now  lay  the  planks.  In  the  middle  of  the 
track.  End  to  end.  So." 

The  Sergeant,  dismounting,  stood  at  John  G.'s 
wise  old  head,  stroking  his  muzzle,  whispering  into 
his  ear. 


270        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Come  along,  John,  it's  all  right,  old  man!"  he 
finished  with  a  final  caress. 

Then  he  led  John  G.  to  the  first  plank. 

"One  of  you  men  walk  on  each  side  of  him.  Now, 
John!" 

Delicately,  nervously,  John  G.  set  his  feet,  step  by 
step,  till  he  had  reached  the  centre  of  the  second 
plank. 

Then  the  Sergeant  talked  to  him  quietly  again, 
while  two  Troopers  picked  up  the  board  just  quitted 
to  lay  it  in  advance. 

And  so,  length  by  length,  they  made  the  passage, 
the  horse  moving  with  extremest  caution,  shivering 
with  full  appreciation  of  the  unaccustomed  danger, 
yet  steadied  by  his  master's  presence  and  by  the 
friend  on  either  hand. 

As  they  moved,  the  gale  wreaked  all  its  fury  on 
them.  It  was  growing  colder  now,  and  the  rain, 
changed  to  sleet,  stung  their  skins  with  its  tiny, 
sharp-driven  blades.  The  skeleton  bridge  held  them 
high  suspended  in  the  very  heart  of  the  storm.  Once 
and  again  a  sudden  more  violent  gust  bid  fair  to 
sweep  them  off  their  feet.  Yet,  slowly  progressing, 
they  made  their  port  unharmed. 

Then  came  the  next  horse's  turn.  More  than  a 
single  mount  they  dared  not  lead  over  at  once,  lest  the 
contagious  fears  of  one,  reacting  on  another,  produce 
panic.  The  horse  that  should  rear  or  shy,  on  that 
wide-meshed  footing,  would  be  fairly  sure  to  break 
a  leg,  at  best.  So,  one  by  one,  they  followed  over, 
each  reaching  the  farther  side  before  his  successor 
began  the  transit. 


JOHN  G.  271 

And  so,  at  last,  all  stood  on  the  opposite  bank, 
ready  to  follow  John  G.  once  more,  as  he  led  the  way 
to  duty. 

"Come  along,  John,  old  man.  You  know  how 
you'd  hate  to  find  a  lot  of  dead  women  and  babies 
because  we  got  there  too  late  to  save  them!  Make 
a  pace,  Johnny  boy!" 

The  First  Sergeant  was  talking  gently,  leaning  over 
his  pommel.  But  John  G.  was  listening  more  from 
politeness  than  because  he  needed  a  lift.  His  stride 
was  as  steady  as  a  clock. 

It  was  three  hours  after  midnight  on  that  bitter 
black  morning  as  they  entered  the  streets  of  the 
town.  And  the  streets  were  as  quiet,  as  peaceful,  as 
empty  of  men,  as  the  heart  of  the  high  woods! 

"Where's  their  mob?"  growled  the  Sergeant. 

"Guess  its  mother's  put  it  to  sleep,"  a  cold,  wet 
Trooper  growled  back. 

"Well,  we  thought  there  was  going  to  be  trouble," 
protested  the  local  power,  roused  from  his  feather- 
bed. "It  really  did  look  like  serious  trouble,  I  assure 
you.  And  we  could  not  have  handled  serious  trouble 
with  the  means  at  our  command.  Moreover,  there 
may  easily  be  something  yet.  So,  gentlemen,  I  am 
greatly  relieved  you  have  come.  I  can  sleep  in  peace 
now  that  you  are  here.  Good-night!  Good-night ! " 

All  through  the  remaining  hours  of  darkness  the 
detail  patrolled  the  town.  All  through  the  lean,  pale 
hours  of  dawn  it  carefully  watched  its  wakening, 
guarded  each  danger-point.  But  never  a  sign  of  dis- 
turbance did  the  passing  time  bring  forth. 

At  last,  with  the  coming  of  the  business  day,  the 


272        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Sergeant  sought  out  the  principal  men  of  the  place, 
and  from  them  ascertained  the  truth. 

Threats  of  a  jail  delivery  there  had  been,  and  a 
noisy  parade  as  well,  but  nothing  had  occurred  or 
promised  beyond  the  power  of  an  active  local  officer 
to  handle.  Such  was  the  statement  of  one  and  all. 

"I'll  just  make  sure,"  said  the  Sergeant  to  himself. 

Till  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  detail  con- 
tinued its  patrols.  The  town  and  its  outskirts  re- 
mained of  an  exemplary  peace.  At  two  o'clock  the 
Sergeant  reported  by  telephone  to  his  Captain:  — 

"Place  perfectly  quiet,  sir.  Nothing  seems  to  have 
happened  beyond  the  usual  demonstration  of  a  sym- 
pathizing crowd  over  an  arrest.  Unless  something 
more  breaks,  the  Sheriff  should  be  entirely  capable 
of  handling  the  situation." 

"Then  report  back  to  Barracks  at  once,"  said  the 
voice  of  the  Captain  of  "A"  Troop.  "There's  real 
work  waiting  here." 

The  First  Sergeant,  hanging  up  the  receiver,  went 
out  and  gathered  his  men. 

Still  the  storm  was  raging.  Icy  snow,  blinding 
sheets  of  sharp-fanged  smother,  rode  on  the  racing 
wind.  Worse  overhead,  worse  underfoot,  would  be 
hard  to  meet  in  years  of  winters. 

But  once  again  men  and  horses,  without  an  interval 
of  rest,  struck  into  the  open  country.  Once  again  on 
the  skeleton  bridge  they  made  the  precarious  crossing. 
And  so,  at  a  quarter  to  nine  o'clock  at  night,  the 
detail  topped  Greensburg's  last  ice-coated  hill  and 
entered  the  yard  of  its  high-perched  Barracks. 

As  the  First  Sergeant  slung  the  saddle  off  John 


JOHN  G.  273 

G.'s  smoking  back,  Corporal  Richardson,  farrier  of 
the  Troop,  appeared  before  him  wearing  a  mien  of 
solemn  and  grieved  displeasure. 

"It's  all  very  well,"  said  he,  —  "all  very  well,  no 
doubt.  But  eighty-six  miles  in  twenty-four  hours,  in 
weather  like  this,  is  a  good  deal  for  any  horse.  And 
John  G.  is  twenty-two  years  old,  as  perhaps  you  may 
remember.  I've  brought  the  medicine." 

Three  solid  hours  from  that  very  moment  the  two 
men  worked  over  John  G.,  and  when,  at  twelve 
o'clock,  they  put  him  up  for  the  night,  not  a  wet  hair 
was  left  on  him.  As  they  washed  and  rubbed  and 
bandaged,  they  talked  together,  mingling  the  Ser- 
geant's trenchantly  humorous  common  sense  with  the 
Corporal's  mellow  philosophy.  But  mostly  it  was  the 
Corporal  that  spoke,  for  twenty-four  hours  is  a  fair 
working  day  for  a  Sergeant  as  well  as  for  a  Troop 
horse. 

"I  believe  in  my  soul,"  said  the  Sergeant,  "that  if 
a  man  rode  into  this  stable  with  his  two  arms  shot  off 
at  the  shoulder,  you'd  make  him  groom  his  horse 
with  his  teeth  and  his  toes  for  a  couple  of  hours  before 
you'd  let  him  hunt  a  doctor." 

"Well,"  rejoined  Corporal  Richardson,  in  his  soft 
Southern  tongue,  "and  what  if  I  did?  Even  if  that 
man  died  of  it  he'd  thank  me  heartily  afterward. 
You  know,  when  you  and  I  and  the  rest  of  the  world, 
each  in  our  turn,  come  to  Heaven's  gate,  there'll 
be  St.  Peter  before  it,  with  the  keys  safe  in  his  pocket. 
And  over  the  shining  wall  behind  — from  the  inside, 
mind  you  —  will  be  poking  a  great  lot  of  heads  — 
innocent  heads  with  innocent  eyes  —  heads  of  horses 


274        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

and  of  all  the  other  animals  that  on  this  earth  are  the 
friends  of  man,  put  at  his  mercy  and  helpless. 

"And  it's  clear  to  me  —  over,  John!  so,  boy!  — 
that  before  St.  Peter  unlocks  the  gate  for  a  single  one 
of  us,  he'll  turn  around  to  that  long  row  of  heads, 
and  he'll  say:  — 

"'Blessed  animals  in  the  fields  of  Paradise,  is  this 
a  man  that  should  enter  in?' 

"And  if  the  animals  —  they  that  were  placed  in 
his  hands  on  earth  to  prove  the  heart  that  was  in 
him  —  if  the  immortal  animals  have  aught  to  say 
against  that  man  —  never  will  the  good  Saint  let  him 
in,  with  his  dirty,  mean  stain  upon  him.  Never. 
You'U  see,  Sergeant,  when  your  time  comes.  Witt 
you  give  those  tendons  another  ten  minutes  ?" 

Next  morning  John  G.  walked  out  of  his  stall  as 
fresh  and  as  fit  as  if  he  had  come  from  pasture.  And 
to  this  very  day,  in  the  stable  of  "A"  Troop,  John  G., 
handsome,  happy,  and  able,  does  his  friends  honor. 


XIII 

HOT  WEATHER 

happened  in  Pittsburgh  in  mid-July.  For 
days  and  nights  the  heat  had  been  merciless.  It 
had  beaten  through  the  roofs  and  walls  and  pave- 
ments, until  roofs  and  walls  and  pavements  gasped 
it  seven-fold  back.  It  lay  and  weltered  in  streets  and 
alleys,  a  thick  and  sticky  pestilence.  The  two  great 
rivers,  sweating  beneath  it,  clogged  the  air  with 
steam.  No  escape  anywhere. 

The  people's  first  resistance  had  worn  away.  Weak 
ones  were  falling,  each  into  his  own  pit  —  the  weakest 
first. 

Mary  Kaufman's  time  came  early.  Mary  Kauf- 
man had  not  much  chance.  Physically  she  was  a  chip 
—  a  rag.  Her  weight  was  under  a  hundred  pounds, 
and  the  little  length  she  had  was  her  only  dimension. 
She  was  under-nourished,  anaemic,  feebly  hysterical. 
Her  inheritance,  if  she  had  thought  of  such  things, 
might  have  scared  her.  Her  personal  history  was  dull. 
She  was  married,  and  her  married  life,  poor  but  not 
poverty-stricken,  had  been  troubled.  She  had  one 
child,  a  seven-year-old  boy  —  and  she  sometimes 
wished  the  boy  was  dead.  The  boy  himself  was  a 
bright  little  creature,  loving  and  gentle  and  happy- 
hearted,  but  his  spirit  did  not  penetrate  the  fretful 
mind  of  his  mother  who  saw  in  him  only  a  burden  to 
carry  in  a  tiresome  world. 


276        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Under  the  great,  relentless  heat  —  day  after  day 
of  it,  night  after  night  —  Mary  Kaufman  began  to 
brood,  with  a  vague  resentment  of  the  whole  scheme 
of  life.  Then  came  a  morning  when  she  arose  from  her 
comfortless,  tousled  bed  into  the  grip  of  an  idea. 

Under  its  spell  she  dressed  herself  and  the  boy,  and, 
without  stopping  for  any  pretence  of  food,  hurried 
out  into  the  street  and  away  to  the  railroad  station. 
There  she  bought  tickets  to  Kittanning,  distant  some 
sixty  miles. 

Halfway  to  Kittanning,  at  a  station  called  Butler 
Junction,  just  as  the  train  had  finished  its  stop  and 
was  about  pulling  out,  Mary  Kaufman  suddenly 
sprang  to  her  feet,  and,  dragging  the  boy  after  her, 
hurried  out  of  the  car  —  the  rattle-trap  day-coach 
gritty  with  cinders,  pasted  with  soot,  reeking  with 
heat  and  with  sickening  smells  of  bananas  and  coal- 
gas  and  humanity. 

She  hurried  out  of  the  car,  dragging  the  child  after 
her.  And  just  as  the  couplings  gave  their  first  jerk  a 
brakeman  saw  the  two  jump  off,  on  the  wrong  side 
of  the  track. 

He  called  his  conductor.  Hanging  from  the  plat- 
form the  better  to  watch  her,  the  two  men  saw  her 
climb  down  toward  the  river-bank,  then,  as  though 
she  had  changed  her  mind,  veer  back  and  start  out 
along  the  bridge. 

"I  don't  like  that,"  said  the  brakeman,  as  a  curve 
shut  off  the  sight. 

"No  more  do  I,"  agreed  the  conductor.  "What's 
worse,  I  thought  she  was  queer  when  I  took  her 
ticket  —  and  —  why,  yes,  by  George!  That  ticket 


HOT  WEATHER  277 

was  for  Kittanning.  She  should  n't  have  got  off  here 
at  all!" 

"It's  my  belief,"  the  brakeman  observed,  "that 
the  woman  is  crazy,  and  that  she  means  to  drown 
the  boy.  She's  just  looking  for  the  likeliest  place  to 
push  him  off.  That's  what  she's  up  to,  mark  my 
words." 

"  With  her  with  a  ticket  to  Kittanning,  and  getting 
into  some  mess  on  the  way  —  there  '11  likely  be  a  claim 
against  the  Company  — "  The  conductor's  fears 
increased. 

They  stopped  the  train  at  the  first  tower-station 
and  sent  in  a  warning  to  Freeport,  the  seat  of  the 
nearest  local  police. 

Meantime  Mary  Kaufman,  pursued  by  her  idea, 
but  as  yet  confused  and  vacillating,  drifted  back 
across  the  bridge.  Its  sheer  height  and  the  stabbing 
glint  of  the  flood  beneath,  as  it  glittered  under  the 
terrible  sun,  in  some  way  failed  to  command  her. 
She  must  seek  her  thought  in  another  form.  Wander- 
ing still,  she  strayed  through  the  little  river  settle- 
ment called  Garber's  Ferry,  and  so  out  and  beyond, 
until  her  eyes  fell  upon  a  pleasant  old  white-columned 
farmhouse,  standing  back  among  its  green  lawns, 
under  the  shade  of  ample  trees  —  comfortable,  pros- 
perous, cool. 

At  this  sight,  so  novel  to  her  fevered  eyes,  the  poor 
little  city-grown  straw  whirled  into  a  new  eddy.  She 
would  take  the  house,  so  cool  and  quiet,  so  white  and 
calm  behind  the  big  pillars,  beneath  the  green  shade. 
She  would  take  it,  and  then,  having  killed  the  boy,  — 
she  had  nothing  against  the  boy,  but  still  she  must 


278        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

kill  him,  —  she  must  kill  him,  —  she  would  live  in  it 
free  as  air,  all  by  herself. 

Mary  Kaufman  stood  hi  the  doorway,  gazing  into 
the  eyes  of  the  mistress  of  the  house.  It  was  haying 
season.  Not  a  man  was  on  the  place. 

"I  have  come  to  live  here,"  said  Mary  Kaufman. 

"But  I  don't  know  who  you  are ! "  gasped  the  other. 

"No,"  said  Mary,  "but  I  have  come  here  to  live. 
Not  with  this  child.  I  shall  not  keep  him.  I  shall  live 
here  alone.  Go  away  at  once." 

"But,"  cried  the  mistress,  "this  is  my  house!" 

"If  you  don't  go  away  this  minute  —  now"  — 
Mary  was  talking  calmly  enough,  but  the  pupils  of 
her  eyes  were  very  broad  and  there  was  warning  in 
her  face  —  "if  you  don't  run,  quick,  I  shall  have  to 
kill  you." 

The  terrified  woman  waited  for  no  proof.  She  ran, 
as  fast  as  the  heat  and  the  fright  and  her  unaccus- 
tomed frame  would  let  her,  and  she  carried  the  news 
to  the  railroad  station  at  Garber's  Ferry,  her  nearest 
refuge. 

In  the  interval  Mary  Kaufman  was  looking  over 
her  new  home.  Pleased  with  all  that  she  saw,  she 
stopped  to  examine  furniture,  ornaments,  curtains, 
carpets,  even  the  racks  of  hunting  guns,  property  of 
two  sportsman  members  of  the  family,  that  hung  in 
the  hall.  Mary  had  scarcely  even  seen  a  gun  before 
—  had  almost  certainly  never  held  one  in  her  hand. 
It  amused  her  to  pretend  to  aim  them  and  to  play 
with  the  locks;  and  she  looked,  too,  with  vague  in- 
terest at  several  revolvers  and  at  the  boxes  of  cart- 
ridges conveniently  at  hand.  She  was  thus  wholly 


HOT  WEATHER  279 

absorbed,  when  the  boy  began  to  whimper  at  her 
knees. 

"Mamma,  I'm  so  hungry!"  wailed  the  poor  little 
chap. 

It  was  already  noon  and  neither  of  the  pair  had 
broken  fast  that  day. 

Mary  stared  at  the  child  strangely.  "Well,  I  may 
as  well  feed  you,"  she  concluded.  "There's  sure  to 
be  plenty  in  the  house." 

So  she  laid  down  the  rifle  she  was  fondling  and 
moved  off  toward  the  kitchen,  the  famished  child 
trotting  behind  her,  revivified  by  hope. 

There  was,  indeed,  food  enough  in  the  house  — 
ample  food  for  many  mouths,  some  of  it  ready  pre- 
pared. Mary  stood  looking  at  rows  of  good  things 
—  bread,  cake,  pies,  cold  meat,  and  at  bins  and  crocks 
and  jars  and  bags  of  stores,  while  the  boy  gazed  too, 
with  wonder  and  delight.  And  while  she  so  stood, 
motionless,  a  new  impression  seized  her  with  a  rush. 

"Some  one  is  coming  to  take  this  house  away  from 
me.  I  can't  stop  to  feed  you  now  —  I  can't  stop  for 
anything.  And  I'll  have  to  leave  you  alive  a  little 
longer.  Come!  Come!" 

Snatching  the  child  by  the  shoulder  she  pushed  and 
dragged  him  out  of  the  room,  up  the  stairs,  and  flung 
him,  weakly  wailing,  into  a  corner  of  the  upper  hall. 

"Stay  quiet!  There's  a  good  boy!  Don't  move! 
Don't  make  a  sound!"  she  whispered  vehemently. 
"I'll  get  you  some  pie  soon.  And  then  I'll  kill  you. 
But  not  now  —  not  just  yet.  You  must  wait.  First 
I  must  lock  all  the  doors.  I  must  get  the  guns  —  all 
the  guns,  every  one." 


280        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Hurrying  away  down  the  stairs,  she  labored  back, 
breathless,  as  fast  as  her  feet  would  carry  her,  two 
heavy  rifles  in  her  arms.  She  bore  them  into  a  front 
chamber  and  flung  them  on  the  bed.  Again  and  again 
she  made  the  trip,  precipitate,  as  though  she  knew  she 
had  not  a  moment  to  lose,  until  every  weapon  and  all 
the  ammunition  had  been  transferred  to  her  chosen 
spot.  Together  they  made  a  small  arsenal,  for,  as  it 
chanced,  the  men  of  this  household  loved  firearms,  each 
rivalling  the  other  in  the  completeness  of  his  stock. 

"Now,"  said  Mary,  "let  them  come!" 

She  stationed  herself  at  a  front  window,  like  a 
minute-man  on  guard.  Scarcely  had  she  done  so 
when  the  Freeport  police,  four  strong,  bore  down  on 
the  house.  They  were  mopping  their  brows  and 
panting;  they  were  more  than  a  little  irritated  at  the 
trifling  nature  of  the  pretext  that  brought  them  so  far 
afield  under  conditions  so  extreme. 

"Wait  here  in  the  road,"  said  the  Chief.  "I'll  go 
and  bring  her  out.  No  need  of  everybody  going  in. 
It  might  excite  her."  He  started  up  the  walk. 

"Who  are  you?"  It  was  a  sharp,  thin,  woman's 
voice,  calling  from  an  upper  window. 

"Freeport  police." 

"Well,  you  ain't  wanted  here.  Go  right  back  to 
Freeport." 

"No,  no!"  cried  the  Chief,  as  if  remonstrating  with 
a  child.  "You  can't  talk  like  that  to  a  policeman, 
you  know.  I 'm  here  to  get  you.  You  must  come  right 
along,  now,  with  me." 

Again  he  started  up  the  walk,  but  stopped  short 
as  a  bullet  sang  over  his  head. 


HOT  WEATHER  281 

"For  God's  sake,  look  out!"  cried  the  voices  be- 
hind him,  and  in  the  same  instant  he  caught  sight  of 
a  small,  white  face,  in  the  upper  window,  peering 
down  at  him  along  the  barrel  of  a  rifle,  from  whose 
muzzle  rose  a  coil  of  smoke.  Wise  man  that  he  was, 
he  turned  and  ran  for  cover  like  a  deer.  When  he 
peered  out  again  not  one  of  his  confreres  remained  in 
sight. 

"S'st!"  came  presently,  from  behind  a  tree. 

"S'st!"  "S'st!"  echoed  other  shelters. 

"Let's  hike  back  and  get  word  to  the  Burgess," 
whispered  the  tree.  "This  looks  serious.  We  don't 
want  to  do  anything  rash." 

So  they  stole  away. 

Meantime  the  country-side  was  gathering.  The 
railroad  police  appeared;  neighboring  farmers;  vil- 
lage folk.  The  midday  sun  blazed  high,  and  they 
sought  out  spots  of  shaded  concealment  whence  to 
spy  upon  the  infested  house,  wherein  to  plot.  Now 
and  again  some  bolder  spirit  ventured  a  sortie,  in- 
stantly to  draw  a  shot.  The  aim  was  erratic,  — 
uncalculable,  —  and  none  the  pleasanter  for  that. 
There  was  no  safety  zone. 

"There's  those  girls  camping  over  yonder  on  the 
Carnegie  Institute  Tech  grounds!  They're  easy 
within  range  of  that  big  rifle! "  exclaimed  a  voice  from 
an  unseen  source. 

"Yes,  and  there's  a  hundred  of  'em  if  there's  one. 
Just  as  like  as  not  to  stop  a  bullet,  any  of  'em.  They 
probably  think  all  this  racket's  just  skylarkin'.  They 
won't  be  watchin'  out." 

"Somebody  ought  to  go  tell  'em." 


282        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Crack  I  Crack  I  A  small  green  branch  with  a  splint- 
ered stem  sailed  down  among  the  speakers. 

A  pause.  Then  a  dubious  voice:  "We-el,  I  don't 
know  how  you  feel  —  but  7  ain't  so  crazy  about 
movin'  out  from  behind  this  here  rock  —  just  at 
present.  I  reckon  them  girls  '11  come  in  out  of  the 
rain  —  take  care  of  themselves  —  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  yes!"  hastily  agreed  the  others.  "Course 
they  will."  And  made  speed  to  quit  the  topic. 

Crack  I  Crack  I  Crack  I  from  the  house. 

The  Freeport  police,  returning,  had  essayed  an- 
other attack  under  cover  of  a  ruse  carefully  planned, 
only  to  be  driven  to  their  heels.  The  sole  result  of 
their  venture  had  been  to  endanger  not  only  their  own 
lives,  but  those  of  anybody  and  everybody  within 
range  of  the  windows. 

"Almost  seems  like  they'd  have  to  shoot  her," 
ventured  some  one. 

"Kind  of  horrible  to  shoot  a  woman!" 

"Sure  —  but  we  can't  get  her  out  this  way,  that's 
certain.  And  there's  no  telling  what  awful  thing  she 
may  not  do,  going  on  as  she  is." 

"There's  plenty  of  food  in  that  house,  and  am- 
munition enough  for  an  army." 

"But  she's  got  to  sleep  sometime." 

"Yes,  but  they  do  say  crazy  people  have  double 
strength.  And  what  mischief  won't  she  pull  off  be- 
fore she  sleeps!  Burning  that  good  old  house  down 
'11  be  the  least  of  it." 

"Oh,  say,  look  there!  Who  are  them  fellers  comin* 
up  the  road?" 

Two  figures  clad  in  steel-gray  uniform  had  just 


HOT  WEATHER  283 

jumped  out  of  a  car  a  little  below  the  house  and  were 
now  approaching  rapidly.  Something  about  them, 
even  at  this  first  glance,  conveyed  the  certainty  that 
with  their  advent  the  whole  situation  had  instantly 
changed —  that  nothing  that  had  gone  before 
counted  — •  that  business  would  now  begin.  The 
swing  of  their  clean-muscled  bodies  sent  a  message 
ahead.  The  stride  and  snap  of  their  close-putteed 
legs  wrote  "Finis"  to  nonsense  and  mess. 

"State  Troopers,  by  Gad!  That's  the  talk!  Now 
we'll  see  something!" 

"What  makes  them  chaps  look  so  —  so  kinder 
powerful  like?"  queried  one  puzzled  voice  from  be- 
hind a  stump. 

"They  do  that,  don't  they!"  assented  another. 

"Dummed  if  I  don't  think  it  might  be  the  collars." 

"Collars,  nothing!   It5 s  fact!" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know.  But  look  here:  Do  you  reckon 
you  could  stand  such  a  collar,  stiffened  right  up 
around  your  throat,  with  hooks  and  metal  and  all, 
such  weather  as  this?  And  yet  you  never  saw  one  o* 
them  State  men  any  other  way,  day  nor  night,  not 
if  't  was  hot  as  Tophet.  You  could  n't  hire  'em. 
Looks  like  they  had  n't  no  human  weaknesses." 

"I've  got  a  cousin  on  probation  with  the  Force, 
now,"  a  fourth  man  put  in.  "He  said  that  collar 
stood  for  the  difference  between  him  and  a  slouch. 
Slouch  meant  me.  I  tried  to  lick  him  for  it.  But 
he'd  had  two  months'  training  already.  Took  me  a 
week  to  get  over  it."  The  voice  laughed  ruefully, 
yet  with  pride  of  superiority.  No  one  else  in  the 
Borough  owned  such  a  cousin  to  be  licked  by. 


284        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Come  along,  boys,  anyway.  Let's  work  down  to 
meet  'em  and  see  what  they're  goin'  to  do." 

The  voice  of  the  Burgess  of  Freeport,  appealing 
for  help  in  the  emergency  reported  by  his  police,  had 
reached  "D"  Troop's  telephone  desk,  twenty-four 
miles  away,  at  twenty  minutes  after  two  o'clock. 
"D"  Troop  Barracks  is  two  miles  from  the  Butler 
railway  station.  A  train  for  Freeport  left  Butler  at 
twenty-five  minutes  after  two. 

Sergeant  Charles  T.  Smith  and  Private  Hess  caught 
the  two-twenty-five.  And  if  the  Troop  car  touched 
but  seldom  and  lightly  on  the  highroad  intervening, 
no  one  and  nothing  was  the  worse  for  its  flight. 

Now  on  the  ground  they  stood  for  a  moment  ap- 
praising the  situation. 

"Before  we  begin,"  —  it  was  the  Sergeant  who 
spoke,  splendid  specimen  of  a  fine  old  Regular  Army 
type,  steady,  solid,  and  cool,  —  "I  want  every  civil- 
ian out  of  here!  It's  a  wonder  some  one  has  n't  been 
killed  already.  Clear  out,  please!  —  you  railroad  po- 
lice and  all  —  way  out  of  harm's  way.  I  don't  want 
one  of  you  to  get  hurt." 

Every  one  obeyed  alacritously,  with  the  exception 
of  one  man  —  Doane,  of  the  Freeport  police. 

"I'd  like  to  stop  and  see  what  you're  going  to  do," 
said  Doane. 

"All  right,  then,  but  keep  covered,"  cautioned  the 
Sergeant. 

"But  can't  I  do  anything  to  help?" 

"Well,"  —  the  Sergeant  reflected,  —  "maybe  when 
we  get  inside  you  might  call  to  her  and  get  her  at- 
tention at  the  window.  Use  judgment." 


HOT  WEATHER  285 

Meantime,  as  if  herself  absorbed  in  wonder  at  the 
new  move,  Mary  Kaufman  had  ceased  firing. 

"Hess,  you  slide  around  to  the  back  door,  while  I 
tackle  the  front,"  said  the  Sergeant,  and  started 
straight  up  the  path  to  the  house. 

Doane,  looking  on,  felt  his  heart  stop  beating. 
With  every  step  he  expected  to  see  a  rose  of  flame  at 
the  window,  and  the  springy  figure  stagger  and  fall. 
But  the  Sergeant  reached  the  door  in  safety.  The 
window  remained  blank. 

"She  has  given  it  up,  thank  goodness!"  thought 
Doane. 

Then  he  saw  that  the  front  door  must  be  locked. 
The  Sergeant  was  setting  his  shoulder  against  it.  It 
gave,  burst  in.  And  in  that  same  instant  a  shot  rang 
out  in  the  interior  of  the  house.  The  report  merged 
and  echoed  on  in  a  curious  metallic  tz'zing  ! 

By  some  strange  freak  of  her  disordered  senses, 
Mary  had  become  aware  of  Trooper  Hess's  silent  and 
invisible  approach.  Obsessed  by  the  new  conscious- 
ness, she  had  ignored  the  movement  at  the  front  of 
the  house,  and,  while  reloading  her  guns,  had  con- 
centrated her  watch  in  the  other  direction.  Hovering 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  she  had  awaited  her  mo- 
ment, her  eyes  on  the  door  at  the  back  of  the  hall 
below.  This,  also,  she  had  locked  and  barred.  She 
saw  the  handle  turn.  Then,  in  a  second  more,  she 
saw  the  whole  fabric  begin  to  give,  to  yield.  With  a 
final  crack  the  door  swung  in.  Mary  fired.  The  range 
was  so  short  she  could  hardly  miss  —  yet  miss  she 
did,  and  the  bullet,  striking  the  bell  of  the  telephone, 
added  its  jarring  scream  to  the  crash  of  the  gun. 


286        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Both  officers  were  now  making  for  the  stairs. 
Mary,  flying  before  them  back  into  her  bedroom  ar- 
senal, slammed  and  locked  the  door. 

The  two  men,  with  a  glance  at  each  other,  stood 
aside,  to  right  and  to  left,  against  the  wall. 

Crash!  came  a  bullet,  tearing  through  the  panel. 

"Six-shooter,  that  one!"  said  Hess. 

The  Sergeant  nodded. 

Crash  I  Again  the  panel  splintered. 

"Let  her  empty  it." 

Crash!  Crash! 

Crash  I  With  the  fifth  report  the  wood  flew  again. 

"On  the  next  I  go  in.  You  wait,  Hess,"  the  Ser- 
geant commanded. 

Crash  I  the  lead  struck  through. 

With  a  mighty  shove  the  Sergeant  drove  in.  Mary 
stood  by  the  far  window,  her  revolver  raised  as  if  to 
fire.  As  the  Sergeant  jumped  for  her,  she  pulled  the 
trigger  and  a  bullet  grazed  his  cheek! 

He  seized  her  in  his  arms,  his  grip  closing  over  her 
revolver  hand.  She  struggled,  vainly,  to  turn  the 
point  upon  him,  and  again  her  weapon  flashed. 

Doane,  down  below,  had  bettered  the  Sergeant's 
instruction  by  twice  firing  his  own  revolver  close 
under  the  window,  instead  of  attempting  to  divert 
Mary's  attention  by  speech.  The  officers  had  counted 
these  two  reports,  in  reckoning  with  the  six  chambers 
of  Mary's  weapon. 

But  Sergeant  Smith  now  held  the  frail  Fury  safe  in 
his  arms,  while  the  revolver,  gently  twisted  out  of  her 
clutch,  lay  harmless  and  empty  on  the  floor  where  he 
had  tossed  it. 


HOT  WEATHER  287 

"Hess,"  he  said,  "you  take  her  now,  while  I  go 
hunt  for  the  boy." 

"I'm  awfully  afraid  she's  killed  him!" 

"My  notion,  too.  I  pretty  near  hate  to  look!" 

As  the  Sergeant  left  the  room,  Mary  seemed  to 
relax  all  over,  as  though  her  fighting  spirit  was  fled. 
Private  Hess  lightened  his  hold,  to  give  her  greater 
comfort.  In  an  instant,  with  the  quickness  of  an  eel, 
she  had  writhed  out  of  his  hands  and  darted  across 
the  room.  With  a  lightning  movement  she  turned 
and  faced  him,  another  loaded  revolver  in  her  hand. 
But  this  time  the  soldier  was  her  master  in  dexterity. 
He  disarmed  her  with  careful  ease. 

Meantime  Sergeant  Smith  was  searching  the  house 
for  the  boy.  Up  and  down,  in  closets  and  cupboards 
and  boxes,  everywhere  he  sought  him,  and  sought  in 
vain. 

"Wonder  if  he  managed  to  slip  away  before  she 
locked  the  doors  —  before  the  siege  began,"  he  was 
saying  to  himself,  as  he  mounted  the  attic  stairs. 

In  the  attic  was  a  bedchamber.  Its  bed  was  cov- 
ered with  a  large  counterpane,  broad  enough  to 
sweep  the  floor  at  the  sides.  Sergeant  Smith,  standing 
in  the  doorway,  glanced  once  around  the  bare  little 
place.  Then,  his  eyes  on  the  bed,  he  stopped  short 
and  listened,  while  he  held  his  breath.  Another  mo- 

ent  and  he  was  on  his  hands  and  knees,  lifting  the 
edge  of  the  counterpane  to  look  beneath. 

Come  along  out,  now,  son,"  he  was  saying,  very 
quietly,  "it's  all  right." 

A  pause.  Silence.  No  movement.  Then  a  shuffle 
and  squirming.  A  pair  of  copper-toed  shoes  appeared, 


288        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

much-scuffed  and  rusty,  two  coarse-stockinged  legs, 
a  patched  and  diminutive  trousers'  seat,  a  middy 
blouse,  a  tow-head  buried  in  a  pair  of  arms.  No 
movement  more.  The  head  did  not  turn  or  lift.  The 
locked  arms  were  fixed  and  rigid  —  a  last  defense. 
The  whole  body  was  stiff. 

"Get  up,"  said  the  Sergeant,  very  low. 

With  a  gasp  the  boy  obeyed,  springing  back  as  he 
did  so,  as  if  to  avoid  he  knew  not  what. 

It  was  a  good  little  face,  intelligent,  sweet,  but 
deathly  white  and  ghastly  with  exhaustion  and  mor- 
tal fear.  The  gaze  was  wide  and  staring,  the  blue  lips 
stretched  back  over  the  teeth. 

Sergeant  Smith  said  nothing  at  all,  still  kneeling 
motionless,  holding  the  boy  with  his  steady,  kindly 
eyes.  It  was  as  though  the  eyes  were  suns,  melting 
their  way  where  no  words  could  reach,  into  the  un- 
derstanding heart.  The  child's  whole  life  came  into 
his  own  wide  eyes  and  peered  out,  tensely  questioning 
there.  Then,  with  a  little  quivering  wail,  he  tottered 
forward  and  flung  his  arms  tight  around  the  Ser- 
geant's neck,  burying  his  face  against  that  stiff  high 
collar  that  does  not  betoken  a  slouch. 

"I  did  n't  know  it  was  you!  Oh,  I  did  n't  know  it 
was  you!  "  he  cried,  and  broke  into  long,  dry  sobs. 

The  Sergeant  picked  him  up  in  his  arms,  by  and 
by,  and  carried  him  downstairs.  As  Mary  Kaufman 
saw  them  so,  a  flicker  of  light  broke  through  her 
darkness.  "Now  may  God  have  mercy  on  my  soul!" 
said  she. 


THE  SERGEANT  PICKED  HIM  UP  IN  HIS  ARMS  AND  CARRIED 
HIM  DOWNSTAIRS 


XIV 

GET  YOUR  MAN 

"  When  once  you  start  after  a  man,  you  must  get  him." 

JOHN  C.  GHOOME, 
Superintendent  Pennsylvania  State  Police. 

IT  began  toward  the  end  of  January,  when  the  snow 
lay  deep  on  the  hillsides,  and  when,  as  the  smut- 
faced  miners  came  out  of  the  shafts  at  night,  bitter 
winds  caught  and  belabored  them,  wearily  flounder- 
ing along  their  homeward  way.  Winter,  up  there  in 
Western  Pennsylvania,  strikes  hard,  and  it  is  all  a 
man  can  do  to  earn  his  daily  bread  and  take  his 
meagre  comfort  of  it.  He  needs  no  extra  burden. 
Life  itself  weighs  heavily  enough. 

But  bad  hearts  ignore  chivalry.  Out  of  some  cave 
of  slime  had  crept  men  mean  enough  to  rob  the  poor. 
For  four  weeks  running,  on  pay-day  night,  unidenti- 
fied scoundrels  had  waylaid  the  workmen  on  the 
lonely  roads,  and  at  the  point  of  knife  or  gun  had 
taken  their  envelopes  from  them.  Or,  missing  their 
prey  in  the  open,  they  had  entered  and  rifled  the  bare 
little  homes.  Sometimes,  even,  they  had  boldly  done 
their  work  in  the  very  streets  of  the  villages,  snatch- 
ing the  whole  fruits  of  the  week's  hard  toil  and  de- 
parting before  their  paralyzed  victim  could  recover 
wits  to  resist. 

United  Mine  Workers  men  and  laborers  in  the  zinc 
and  chemical  plants  were  the  principal  sufferers.  For 


290        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

a  while  they  bore  it  sheep-fashion,  in  the  thought  that 
the  curse  would  pass.  But  when,  week  after  week, 
their  all  was  taken  from  them,  it  became  clear  that 
the  thing  had  settled  to  a  steady  gait;  then  they  re- 
volted, demanded  protection  under  the  law,  called 
for  help  —  help  from  the  State  Police. 

The  Captain  of  "A"  Troop  received  their  com- 
plaint and  acted  according  to  the  way  of  the  Force. 
Determining  at  once  the  practical  centre  of  trouble,  he 
fixed  a  sub-station  there.  The  little  town  of  Langeloth 
was  the  point  that  he  chose.  To  that  town  he  sent 
three  men,  Corporal  Mauk,  with  Privates  Nicholson 
and  McCormick,  under  orders  to  catch  the  robbers 
and,  while  they  were  at  it,  to  clean  up  the  place. 

The  three  officers  settled  themselves  in  their  new 
quarters  very  much  as  a  bird  lights  on  a  new  branch. 
Then  they  jumped  into  their  job. 

Entirely  aside  from  the  robberies,  they  found,  the 
place  would  take  quite  a  bit  of  cleaning-up.  It  was 
interesting  to  see  how  many  citizens,  whether  of  the 
villages  or  of  the  open  country  roundabout,  brought 
to  their  door  tales  of  wrong  and  pleas  for  redress, 
knowing  that  succor  lay  now  within  reach.  This  one 
complained  of  a  purveyor  of  cocaine,  this  other  of  a 
disorderly  house,  a  third  reported  a  butcher  who  sold 
to  the  people  diseased  beef.  And  so  on,  with  pleas 
and  responses,  until  Saturday  came,  —  pay-day,  -*- 
bringing  with  it  its  special  occasion. 

Now,  what  the  three  Troopers  did  in  Langeloth  on 
that  particular  Saturday,  the  26th  of  February,  mat- 
tered a  good  deal  to  the  people  of  Langeloth,  but 
matters  to  this  story  not  at  all. 


GET  YOUR  MAN  291 

This  story  begins  with  the  evening  of  February 
27th,  Sunday,  when  the  news  came  screaming  over 
the  sub-station  wire  that  Mary  O'Hagan,  a  Lange- 
loth  miner's  wife,  had  been  brutally  assaulted  and 
afterwards  beaten  by  a  man  unknown;  and  that  she 
now  lay  in  her  own  home  near  death. 

Corporal  Mauk  and  his  two  comrades  were  sitting 
at  supper  when  the  telephone  rang.  McCormick 
jumped  up  to  answer,  taking  the  message  in  the 
steady,  methodical  way  that  the  Force  employs.  But 
as  he  returned  to  report  to  his  Corporal,  his  eyes 
gleamed  with  a  cold  fire. 

Without  a  word  Mauk  and  Nicholson  sprang  up 
leaving  the  half -finished  meal.  Snatching  their  caps 
all  three  men  tramped  out  of  the  room.  Five  min- 
utes later  the  drum  of  their  horses'  feet  had  died  on 
the  outer  dark. 

They  might  have  waited  to  finish  their  meat?  But 
they  wait  for  nothing,  these  lads  of  the  "Black  Hus- 
sars." And  besides,  the  one  crime  in  all  the  catalogues 
of  crimes  that  stands  out  sharpest  for  their  deadly 
enmity  is  the  crime  against  women,  fouler,  as  they 
hold,  even  than  murder  itself. 

The  moon  was  mounting  a  sparkling  sky.  The 
snow  sang  under  flying  hoofs.  The  keen,  dry  cold 
made  almost  a  perfume  in  the  air. 

"She  mustn't  die  before  we  get  there,  boys," 
exclaimed  Mauk. 

As  his  words  smoked  a  cloud  behind  his  head,  the 
three  lifted  their  hardy  little  range  horses  into  greater 
speed. 

Into  the  open  country  they  rode,  over  routes  where 


292        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

few  had  passed  before  them  since  the  last  deep  fall  of 
snow,  and  so  into  the  street  of  a  tiny  "mine-patch" 
settlement,  and  to  O'Hagan's  door. 

It  was  a  ramshackle  door,  in  a  ramshackle  "Com- 
pany house,"  down  at  heel,  out  at  elbow,  dirty-faced 
and  unashamed  after  a  long  succession  of  tenants  who 
cared  for  none  of  these  things.  But  Mary  O'Hagan, 
decent  woman  that  she  was,  had  kept  her  place  clean 
within,  and  the  room  into  which  the  three  Troopers 
stepped  was  as  tidy  as  one  pair  of  hard-working  hands 
could  make  it. 

That  room  was  full,  now  —  full  of  keening  women, 
crouching  with  their  aprons  flung  over  their  heads;  of 
men,  silent,  stiff -mouthed,  stormy-faced;  of  fright- 
ened children,  staring  from  their  mothers'  knees. 

"Where's  O'Hagan?"  asked  Corporal  Mauk,  as  he 
crossed  the  threshold. 

It  was  a  gray-haired  Scottish  foreman  who  an- 
swered. 

"O'Hagan's  ben  th'  hoose  wi'  his  wife,"  said  he. 
"Hurry  doon,  mon.  He's  wearied  waitin'  on  ye." 

Mauk  strode  across  and  knocked  at  the  inner  door. 
It  opened  quickly  and  closed  after  him.  Twenty 
minutes  passed  before  he  emerged.  Then,  with  a  nod 
of  farewell,  he  would  have  left  the  house. 

But  women  caught  at  his  blouse-skirt,  men  laid 
hand  on  his  arm.  Doctor  and  soldier  in  one  they 
knew  all  State  Troopers  to  be.  They  must  hear  the 
word. 

"Will  Mary  die?"  cried  a  girl. 

The  Corporal  looked  at  her  strangely.  "Maybe  it 
would  be  better  so,"  said  he. 


GET  YOUR  MAN  293 

From  the  women  a  long,  low  wail  went  up.  From 
the  men  a  sort  of  shapeless  curse. 

"Do  yez  know  who  done  ut?  Can  yez  get  'um?"  a 
burly  Celt  rapped  out. 

"That's  my  job,"  the  Trooper  replied;  and  with 
the  ring  of  his  speech  every  man  in  the  room  was  his 
brother. 

Once  outside  and  alone  with  his  comrades,  the  Cor- 
poral repeated  the  description  that  he  had  been  able 
to  draw  from  Mary  O'Hagan's  tormented  mind. 

"It  should  be  fairly  easy,"  was  Nicholson's  com- 
ment. 

"Thank  God,  it's  no  easier!"  Mauk  rejoined;  "or 
O'Hagan  would  be  a  murderer  before  this  night  is 
done." 

No  need  to  tell  in  detail  how  they  sifted  their  mat- 
ter down,  or  how  within  two  hours  they  had  learned 
to  a  practical  certainty  that  one  Adolph  Ofenloch,  an 
Austrian  miner,  was  the  man  they  sought.  The  thing 
is  a  method  —  a  science.  They  are  doing  it  all  the 
time.  You  can  pick  your  man  out  of  a  community  as 
a  conjurer  picks  a  card  from  the  pack  —  once  you 
know  how. 

Ofenloch  lived  in  a  miner's  boarding-house  in  a  set- 
tlement some  few  miles  beyond.  Thither  the  Troop- 
ers betook  themselves  straight. 

"Ofenloch  ain't  in  yet,"  said  the  sleepy  landlord, 
standing  in  his  doorway,  candle  in  hand. 

"But  I'll  just  have  a  look,  all  the  same,"  said 
Mauk. 

"Sure!"  the  other  assented,  leading  the  way. 

Search  revealed  that  the  man  had  told  the  truth. 


294        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Ofenloch  was  not  in  that  house.  But  it  revealed  an- 
other point  of  more  cheering  character:  Ofenloch's 
trunk  was  in  the  house  and  in  that  trunk  the  sum  of 
three  hundred  dollars  in  United  States  currency. 

"He's  hiding  out  now,"  remarked  the  Corporal. 
"And  he'll  try  to  make  his  get-away.  But  he'll 
never  leave  without  his  roll.  He'll  be  here  after  it 
later  in  the  night." 

So  the  three  settled  down  in  the  boarding-house 
kitchen  to  wait. 

The  place  was  wretched  enough.  A  faint  feather  of 
steam,  rising  from  the  spout  of  a  rusty  iron  kettle  on 
the  dilapidated  stove,  made  its  single  livelier  note. 
Otherwise  the  battered  table  with  its  dirty  cloth,  the 
crippled  chairs,  the  few  ruinous  dishes  that  shared  the 
shelf  with  the  sharp-voiced  clock,  the  foul  floor,  the 
scrawled  and  grimy  walls,  and  two  glaring,  naked 
chromos  in  fly-specked  frames,  composed  its  graceless 
whole.  A  soot-smudged  reflector  lamp,  its  wry  wick 
feebly  smoking,  revealed  the  scene,  but,  as  the  visitors 
at  once  made  certain,  the  window  curtains,  wrecks 
though  they  were,  effectively  shut  it  away  from  the 
outer  world. 

Silently  the  three  men  watched,  while  their  host 
slept,  his  head  on  the  table  buried  in  his  arms.  Now 
and  again  came  a  shuffle  on  the  step.  Each  Trooper, 
at  the  sound,  would  spring  to  the  sharp  edge  of  readi- 
ness. Then  the  door  would  open  while  some  drunken 
miner  stumbled  in,  half  blindly  seeking  his  accus- 
tomed bed. 

Most  of  them  were  submerged  too  far  to  notice  the 
presence  of  strangers  in  the  room.  Some  floundered 


GET  YOUR  MAN  295 

upstairs  to  their  mattresses.  The  rest,  unequal  to  the 
effort,  dropped  where  they  stood,  succumbed  to  the 
heat  of  the  room,  and  slept.  Little  by  little  the  air 
choked  with  thick,  sickening  odors,  and  strange,  un- 
human  noise. 

It  was  the  ancient,  accustomed  finale  of  the  thing 
that  begins  on  "good  old  Saturday  night."  In  its 
midst  the  three  clean-cut  young  soldiers  stood  out 
like  three  bright  steel  lances  against  a  heap  of  mud. 

Mauk,  almost  six  feet  tall,  heavily  built  and  fine- 
looking,  had  been  a  school-teacher  in  earlier  days, 
after  the  famous  old  Lincolnian  plan  by  which  a  man 
delves  in  the  lumber  camps  or  on  the  farm  between 
school  sessions,  and  sits  up  half  the  night  to  read  law 
and  the  classics  the  whole  year  through.  Now  the 
Force  had  contributed  soldierly  discipline  to  the  mak- 
ing of  an  all-round  man.  Nicholson  and  McCormick 
were  sturdy  variants  of  the  type.  And  there  they  sat, 
watching  and  waiting,  while  the  clock  on  the  shelf 
ticked  into  the  smallest  hour. 

Now  and  again  some  sleeper,  waking  and  dimly 
troubled  by  the  presence  of  guests  so  strange,  would 
pull  himself  up  and  stumble  toward  the  door. 

"Better  go  to  sleep  again,"  Mauk  would  advise, 
laying  a  friendly  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "None  of  us 
are  quitting  here  just  yet." 

And  so  the  half-stupefied  man,  soothed  out  of  his 
hazy  notion,  would  once  more  subside.  Outward- 
bound  news  was  contraband  that  night. 

The  sharp-voiced  clock  marked  a  quarter  after 
one. 

"He'll  be  along  soon,"  muttered  McCormick. 


296        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Click  —  click  —  click  —  click,  snapped  the  clock, 
click  —  click  — 

On  the  cold  snow  outside  a  step  came  creaking  — 
a  heavy  step,  but  swift  and  steady,  unlike  all  those 
others,  vague  and  shambling,  that  had  neared  the 
door  before. 

The  three  exchanged  glances.  Their  bodies  bent 
forward  as  their  feet  slid  back. 

A  sharp  knock. 

Automatically  the  boarding-house  keeper  shifted 
his  head  within  the  pillow  of  his  arms.  His  face  was 
creased  deep  with  the  pattern  of  his  jersey.  His  eyes 
remained  tight  shut.  "Come  in,"  he  called  in  a  sleep- 
drowned  voice. 

The  door  opened.  On  the  threshold  stood  a  man  — 
not  Ofenloch,  not  the  worse-than-murderer,  but  a  big 
negro,  swinging  a  most  portentous  gun. 

"Hands  up,  everybody  !"  he  shouted. 

In  the  first  instant,  light-dazzled,  the  newcomer 
had  seen  only  the  sleepers  grovelling  on  the  floor. 

But  as  all  three  Troopers  jumped  to  grapple  with 
him,  Nicholson  first,  he  looked  up,  with  an  oath, 
fired  point-blank,  and  sprang  backward  into  the 
dark. 

Two  paces  distant,  and  the  aim  at  the  heart!  Poor 
Nicholson  sank  down  without  even  a  groan. 

The  Corporal,  behind,  scarcely  glanced  at  him. 

"Mack,  you  stay  back  here  and  get  the  man!"  he 
called  to  McCormick,  as  he  leaped  over  the  body  and 
out  through  the  door. 

But  the  Corporal's  eyes  needed  also  their  second  of 
time  to  adjust  themselves.  Passing  so  suddenly  from 


GET  YOUR  MAN  297 

lamp-light  into  darkness,  he  tripped  on  some  miser- 
able thing  in  the  ash-pile  by  the  steps,  stumbled  and 
fell.  As  he  fell,  and  rolled,  his  holster  ripped  away 
from  his  belt,  the  revolver  dropped  out,  and,  in  the 
moment  of  fumbling  that  followed,  he  could  not  lay 
hand  on  the  weapon  among  the  deep  mass  of  rubbish 
into  which  it  had  plunged. 

Meantime  he  heard  the  beat  of  the  negro's  steps 
flying  far  and  farther  into  the  night. 

"Better  get  the  darky  than  the  gun!"  argued 
Mauk,  and  forthwith  suited  his  action  to  the  thought. 

The  negro,  a  limber  six-footer,  was  running  for  his 
life.  And  he  had  a  long  start.  But  the  Trooper,  as  it 
happened,  was  running  for  something  just  a  little 
dearer  than  life  —  for  the  honor  of  the  Force.  And 
he  gained  on  that  darky. 

The  negro  struck  a  clean,  straight-away  course, 
over  the  moon-flooded  plain.  Perforce  he  must  trust 
to  speed,  for  nowhere  did  any  cover  offer. 

On  they  raced,  the  two  of  them.  And  though  he 
took  no  precious  time  to  look  behind,  the  fugitive 
knew  that  his  pursuer  was  gaining. 

Suddenly  he  wheeled. 

"Surrender!"  called  Mauk  —  Mauk  with  empty 
hands  to  the  blood-stained  criminal  aiming  a  gun. 

"No!"  shouted  the  black  man.  "I've  killed  one 
State  Trooper  to-night.  I'll  never  be  taken  alive. 
You  go  next!"  and  he  fired. 

Mauk  dropped  to  the  ground  as  the  trigger  fell. 
The  bullet  sang  over  his  head.  Once  more  the  negro 
was  running. 

"He'll   have   loaded   every    chamber   before   he 


298        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

knocked  at  the  door,"  thought  Mauk.  "Four  shots 
left." 

And  the  race  began  again. 

Steadily,  steadily,  the  Trooper  crept  up,  with  each 
jump  nearing  a  little.  But  the  big  black,  though  he 
could  not  keep  his  lead,  was  good  for  yet  much  dis- 
tance. Nearer,  yet  a  trifle  nearer,  the  voice  of  the 
singing  snow  rose  on  his  ear. 

A  second  time  he  swung  round,  threw  his  gun  down 
at  aim,  and  fired,  his  stoutish  figure  outlined  clearly 
by  the  moon  and  the  luminous  snow.  A  second  time, 
helped  by  the  brilliant  light,  Mauk  seized  the  nick 
of  the  instant  to  drop,  eluding  death. 

"Three  left,"  the  Trooper  counted  and  sped  again 
after  his  speeding  quarry. 

But  now,  with  the  distance  between  them  ever  les- 
sening, came  sooner  the  moment  when  the  quarry 
dared  risk  no  more.  He  fired  from  a  range  of  fifteen 
paces.  But  the  Corporal,  Heaven  favoring,  dodged 
and  escaped  as  before. 

"Two,"  reckoned  Mauk,  scarcely  losing  his  stride's 
length. 

Up  to  this  point  their  course  had  lain  straight  out- 
ward from  its  starting-place.  Now,  however,  across 
the  otherwise  featureless  field,  showed  a  long,  low 
inequality,  the  shape  of  a  fence,  weed-draped  and 
clogged  with  snow.  And  the  line  of  that  fence,  run- 
ning at  right  angles  with  the  course,  formed  the  sec- 
ond side  of  a  triangle. 

"He'll  take  to  that  for  cover,"  muttered  the  Cor- 
poral. With  the  notion  he  somehow  let  out  another 
link,  speeding  up.  "If  only  I  can  get  my  two  hands 


GET  YOUR  MAN  299 

on  him,"  he  thought,  "never  mind  that  I  have  no 
gun!" 

Close  to  the  fence  the  black  man  turned  again. 
Mauk,  now  so  near  that  the  powder  splashed  his 
cheek,  jerked  aside,  avoiding  the  bullet.  In  a  flash 
the  fugitive  cleared  the  rail.  But  the  Trooper,  leap- 
ing after,  and  almost  at  grips,  by  evil  fortune  caught 
his  foot  in  a  sprawling  tangle  of  snow-hidden  barbed 
wire.  He  fell  heavily. 

After  the  manner  of  barbed  wire  everywhere,  the 
tangle  spread  itself  out,  wreathed  itself,  crawled  like 
a  live  thing  clutching  and  holding  with  its  myriad 
impish  claws,  while  the  victim  struggled  in  the  midst 
of  it.  When  at  last  he  broke  free,  the  negro  had  al- 
ready established  an  ominous  lead. 

"Which  we'll  cut  again,"  thought  Mauk,  and 
chased  after. 

Meantime,  back  at  the  boarding-house,  Private 
McCormick,  no  small  honor  to  discipline,  sat  alert 
and  alone  among  the  prostrate  and  snoring  crew. 
How  little,  how  very  little,  he  wanted  to  sit  there 
Heaven  knew.  But  orders  are  orders.  And,  moreover, 
he,  too,  had  to  get  his  man.  Afterwards  he  thought 
that  his  ears  grew  mobile  in  those  long  minutes  of 
reaching  and  stretching  after  distant  sounds. 

And  where  was  poor  Nicholson's  body? 

Six  feet  is  short  range  for  a  gunman  to  miss  in. 
Perhaps,  in  the  instant  of  firing,  the  hand  of  the  negro 
wavered  under  his  sudden  recognition  of  the  uniform 
of  the  State.  Aimed  at  the  heart,  his  bullet  flew  high, 
striking  the  left  collar-bone,  shattering  it  to  bits. 


300        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

The  impact  had  felled  Nicholson  like  a  log — crum- 
pled him  up  on  the  floor.  But  before  the  shrewish 
clock  on  the  shelf  had  snapped  many  seconds  away 
he  was  up  and  on  his  feet  again,  plunging  through 
the  door. 

For  a  bit  McCormick's  yearning  ears  had  detected 
the  sound  of  his  footsteps.  Then  utter  stillness  suc- 
ceeded, punctured  at  intervals  by  shots. 

"One,"  McCormick  counted.  "Two.  Three. 
Four." 

"Single  shots,"  he  pondered.  "Now,  what's  the 
meaning  of  that?  " 

Nicholson,  following  the  two  dark  figures  so  far 
ahead,  counted  the  shots  also.  Meantime  his  running 
was  a  miracle.  Some  way  that  bitter  pain  in  his 
shoulder  seemed  only  to  act  as  a  spur.  The  jar  of 
each  step  wrenched  like  red-hot  pincers  —  and  yet, 
in  spite  of  it,  the  lad  was  running  his  very  best. 

When  the  negro,  firing  his  fourth  shot,  vaulted  the 
fence,  Nicholson  was  already  near  enough  to  see  the 
manoeuvre.  And  so,  because  he  understood  it,  he 
instantly  changed  his  course,  darting  away  on  the 
hypothenuse  of  the  triangle,  to  head  off  his  man. 

Calculating  speed  and  space  as  he  flew,  he  knew 
that  he  should  make  the  finish  in  time.  Already  he 
was  halfway  across.  He  fixed  his  eye  on  the  fugitive, 
now  visible  for  the  upper  third  of  his  body  beyond 
the  fence.  And,  so  gazing  and  so  running,  he  failed 
completely  to  see  a  ditch  directly  in  his  path. 

That  ditch  was  eight  feet  deep  and  twelve  feet 
wide.  It  was  faced  with  soft  white  snow.  And  yet,  as 
Nicholson  smashed  to  the  bottom,  it  could  not  have 


GET  YOUR  MAN  301 

hurt  him  worse  had  it  been  a  pit  of  jagged  stones. 
The  splintered  and  sharp  edges  of  his  broken  shoulder 
ground  together  under  the  impact  of  his  whole  weight. 
For  a  second  his  eyes  saw  purple  and  black  in  spots. 
A  wave  of  ghastly  sickness  swept  through  him.  Then 
he  was  up  and  climbing,  out  and  away  again,  his  left 
arm  swinging  oddly  as  he  ran. 

But  the  interruption  had  cost  too  much.  Clearly, 
he  could  no  longer  hope  to  head  off  the  man. 

Mauk,  tearing  down  the  trail  from  above,  perceived 
him  now  —  the  unmistakable  Trooper  figure  silhou- 
etted against  the  white.  And  Mauk's  breast,  at  the 
sight,  even  at  that  tense  and  preoccupied  moment, 
filled  quick  with  the  fires  of  unspeakable  wrath. 

In  Nicholson's  head,  however,  one  single  idea  was 
burning.  "I  must  get  that  man!  I  must  get  that 
man.  If  I  don't,  I  '11  run  till  Easter.  I  '11  never  go  back 
to  the  Troop." 

There  was  only  one  way  to  get  him  now.  Through 
the  heart.  To  wing  him  would  be  to  lose  the  trick. 

But  Nicholson,  you  see,  as  member  of  the  Force's 
revolver  team,  was  one  of  the  four  best  recorded  mil- 
itary revolver  shots  in  the  world.  He  waited  till  the 
moment  of  greatest  possible  proximity  had  come. 
Then,  forty  yards  from  the  fugitive,  he  raised  his 
Colt's  and  fired  a  single  shot. 

The  negro  flung  up  his  arms  and  plunged  out  of 
sight. 

A  moment  later,  as  Nicholson  reached  the  spot, 
Mauk  was  already  stooping  over  the  body. 

"Dead,"  Mauk  growled.  "Clean  shot,  I  must 
say.  Through  the  heart." 


302        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Then  he  rose  to  his  feet,  straightening  up  stiffly, 
and  turned  on  his  comrade  a  face  of  withering  scorn. 

"McCormick,"  he  began,  "you  quitter!  You 
rookie!  If  any  one  had  told  me  this  morning  that  you 
would  disobey  orders  I — what?  Good  —  Lord!  — 
Nick,  man,  is  this  your  ghost?  " 

Later  that  night  Private  McCormick,  still  alone,  but 
grimly  contented,  conveyed  the  worse-than-murderer, 
Ofenloch,  through  very  dangerous  waters  safe  to  jail. 

In  the  black  of  the  morning,  Dr.  McKee,  of  Bur- 
gettstown,  extracted  a  44-40  flat-nosed  Winchester 
bullet  from  among  the  debris  that  had  been  Private 
Nicholson's  left  collar-bone. 

Later  still,  at  the  Coroner's  inquest,  the  identity 
of  the  dead  negro  was  clearly  established;  he  was 
Charles  Smith,  of  Braddock,  Pennsylvania,  profes- 
sional bad  man  and  pay-envelope  robber. 

"  T  was  all  he  did  for  a  livin',  just  skinnin'  us  poor 
devils,"  as  one  grim-faced  miner  averred. 

And  the  tone  that  rang  through  his  speech  found 
open  expression  in  street  and  slope  and  shaft-bucket 
where  men  slapped  each  other's  shoulders,  rejoicing, 
over  deliverance  from  a  curse. 

But  the  Coroner's  jury,  in  the  matter  of  the  ver- 
dict, took  the  bit  in  its  teeth. 

"Suicide.  We  find  that  Charles  Smith  met  death 
by  suicide,"  that  jury  continued  to  insist. 

"But  Private  Nicholson  shot  him  —  shot  him 
through  the  heart ! "  protested  Mauk.  "Verdict  must 
be  rendered  according  to  the  evidence." 

"Of  course,  of  course.    That's  just  what  it  is  — 


GET  YOUR  MAN  303 

just  what  we  're  sayin',  ain't  it?  The  deceased  at- 
tacked a  Pennsylvania  State  Policeman  with  a  gun. 
Any  man  that  attacks  a  Pennsylvania  State  Policeman 
with  a  gun  commits  suicide,"  insisted  the  jury  in  all 
painstaking  seriousness. 

Then  the  Corporal  had  to  argue,  to  reason,  to  ex- 
pound; for  he  wanted  the  formal  verdict  that  would 
clear  his  comrade.  At  last  the  thing  came  straight. 

"Charles  Smith,"  declared  the  jury,  "while  in  the 
commission  of  a  felony,  met  his  death  at  the  hands  of 
a  member  of  the  State  Police.  And  the  said  member 
of  the  State  Police  is  hereby  exonerated  from  all 
blame." 


XV 

NO  STORY  AT  ALL 

THE  Lieutenant  stood  out  on  the  Barracks  steps, 
in  the  shining  dew  of  the  morning.  A  sunrise 
grin  illumined  his  face,  and  his  heels  eased  rhyth- 
mically up  from  the  plane  as  though  his  toes  had 
springs  in  them.  Cold  water  and  soap  and  a  fund- 
amental grooming  gleamed  from  every  inch  of  his 
body. 

"Did  you  sleep  well?"  I  asked,  by  way  of  being 
preposterous. 

"Sleep!"  scoffed  he;  "why,  sleep's  for  breakfast!" 

" '  Sleep  for  your  breakfast, 
Walk  for  your  dinner, 
And  you  're  a  very  poor  soldier 
If  you  can't  go  to  bed  supperless.' 

That's  what  my  old  grandmother  used  to  tell  me  — 
sister  and  daughter  and  mother  of  soldiers,  and  a 
sensible  woman,  anyway.  Look  here!  See  our  moon- 
flowers." 

Out  in  the  front  of  the  Barracks,  in  the  midst  of  the 
grass-plot,  blooms  a  bed  of  roses.  But  the  turf  around 
the  bed  had  suddenly  developed  a  crop  related  to 
roses  in  no  sense  at  all. 

There  was  an  ancient  tin  pail.  There  was  a  rickety 
old  fishing-basket.  There  was  a  small,  sharp-pronged 
iron  trident  with  a  long  handle  made  of  fresh-cut 


NO  STORY  AT  ALL  305 

hickory  sapling  still  wearing  its  bark.  And,  finally, 
there  was  a  brand-new  and  wholly  anonymous  fyke. 

In  the  battered  tin  pail  gasped  a  dark  and  slippery 
mass  of  suckers  and  catfish,  disturbed  occasionally  by 
spasmodic  motion.  In  the  old  basket  lay  other  suck- 
ers, that  would  never  move  again.  In  the  clear  water 
of  the  concrete  horse-trough,  near  by,  other  catfish, 
rescued  in  extremis  by  some  sympathetic  Trooper, 
raced  hither  and  yon  with  fully  restored  energy.  And 
then,  the  fyke. 

A  fyke  is  a  thing  invented  when  the  god  of  the 
fishes  was  sleeping.  Its  mouth  is  broad  and  deep  and 
deadly.  Its  body  is  a  hopeless  abyss.  At  intervals 
the  body  is  distended  by  slender  hoops,  each  with  a 
deadly  mouth  of  its  own.  And  when  its  tail  is  weighted 
fast  upstream  and  its  rapacious  jaws  yawn  at  its  full 
length  below,  few  are  the  fish  that  pass  it  safely  by; 
nor  does  any  that  enters,  small  or  great,  return. 

A  fish's  inferno  at  all  seasons,  there  are  times  and 
places  when  and  where  the  Law  of  the  State  also 
holds  the  fyke  abhorrent.  Section  4  of  the  Act  of 
May  1,  1909,  P.  L.  353,  reads  in  part:  — 

It  shall  be  unlawful  to  use  fyke  nets  .  .  .  from  the  first 
day  of  June  to  the  thirtieth  day  of  June  inclusive  .  .  .  nor 
shall  such  nets  be  used  in  any  streams  inhabited  by  trout, 
at  any  time  of  the  year.  .  .  .  Provided  further,  that  each 
fyke  net  .  .  .  must  have  fastened  thereon  a  metallic  tag 
bearing  the  name  and  residence  of  the  owner  thereof.  Any 
person  violating  any  of  the  provisions  in  this  section,  shall, 
on  conviction  ...  be  subject  to  a  penalty  of  twenty  dol- 
lars, together  with  the  forfeiture  of  all  boats,  nets,  and 
other  appliances  used,  to  the  Department  of  Fisheries. 


306        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

With  another  look  at  the  collection  on  the  grass, 
"Come  inside,"  I  begged,  "and  tell  me  the  story." 

"Oh,  but  it's  no  story  at  all,"  protested  the  Lieu- 
tenant. "We  heard  they  were  there,  and  we  went 
and  got  'em  —  just  an  everyday  occurrence." 

Just  an  everyday  occurrence,  in  the  manner  of  the 
Force,  with  nothing  extraordinary  about  it  —  and 
that  is  exactly  why  it  is  told  here,  as  seen,  or  gathered 
from  those  concerned. 

Up  in  the  hills  east  of  Pittsburgh  lies  a  certain  big, 
well-watered  forest  tract,  at  present  operated  only 
for  ice  production.  The  owners  have  built  large 
storage  houses,  they  have  dammed  their  generous 
creek  to  get  broad  water  surface,  and  they  cut  each 
year  great  quantities  of  clear,  thick  ice,  netting  a 
substantial  profit. 

This  stream  of  theirs  is  called  Dove  Run.  Dove 
Run  City,  consisting  of  a  general  store  with  a  dozen 
houses  more  or  less  under  its  wing,  lies  all  of  five  miles 
away  from  the  ice-houses,  and  is  the  nearest  point  of 
human  habitation.  So,  as  the  ice  dealers,  what  with 
their  dams,  then*  storehouses,  and  then-  hoisting  ma- 
chinery, not  to  mention  their  great  timber  area,  have 
a  considerable  property  to  protect,  and  no  neigh- 
bors to  help  them  at  it,  they  keep  in  their  employ 
a  private  watchman. 

The  watchman,  a  good,  decent  old  man,  lives  alone 
in  the  heart  of  the  tract  entrusted  to  his  care;  and  he 
spends  twelve  hours  of  each  day,  winter  and  summer, 
contentedly  pottering  about  the  place. 

He  is  a  good  woodsman,  knowing  every  tree,  rock, 


NO  STORY  AT  ALL  307 

and  runlet  in  all  his  domain.  He  would  do  his  duty 
always,  to  the  extent  of  reason.  But  you  could  not 
in  reason  expect  him  to  make  much  of  a  fight  against 
ugly  marauders,  should  such  appear,  nor  could  you 
expect  him  to  risk  incurring  the  active  ill-will  of  any 
one  prone  to  revenge.  His  home  is  too  solitary  and 
exposed,  and,  above  all,  he  has  only  private  authority 
behind  him. 

This  watchman,  then,  had  long  been  a  witness  to 
fish-poaching,  practised  in  spite  of  him.  Gangs  from 
a  distance  would  swoop  down  on  his  dams  out  of 
season,  fish  their  fill,  using  illegal  devices,  and  be  off 
and  away  long  before  he  could  send  word  out  of  the 
woods  concerning  them.  Incidentally,  whenever,  in 
the  course  of  his  daily  rounds,  he  came  upon  these  un- 
trammelled sons  of  Belial,  they  would  offer  enthu- 
siastically to  throw  him  either  into  his  dam  or  into 
their  own  camp-fire,  with  the  single  alternative  that 
he  mind  his  own  business.  All  this  irritated  the  old 
man  more  than  a  little,  —  but  in  point  of  fact  he  was 
helpless,  —  until  the  night  before  the  dewy  morning 
that  begins  this  story  that  is  no  story  at  all. 

It  was  an  hour  after  Taps.  The  Barracks  reserves 
were  sound  asleep  —  asleep  as  fire-engine  horses  are, 
with  then-  wits  on  tiptoe  behind  their  eyelids  and 
then*  shoulders  one  jump  from  the  collar.  The  or- 
derly at  the  telephone  sat  with  the  "Digest  of  Crimi- 
nal Law  and  Procedure"  between  his  elbows,  grinding 
page  26.  It  is  your  best  chance  at  hard  nuts,  when 
the  crowd  has  gone  to  the  Field  of  Dreams  and  the 
troubled  world  outside  lies  at  its  maximum  of  peace. 

" —  'From  some  lawful  act  done  in  an  unlawful 


308        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

manner,'"  muttered  the  orderly;  "'from  some  law- 
ful act  done — '"  and  then — Z-zing  went  the  tele- 
phone at  his  side. 

"State  Police,"  his  clear  voice  answered  before  the 
bell  ceased  echoing. 

Mr.  Hopper  —  Joe  Hopper,  storekeeper  of  Dove 
Run  City  —  introduced  himself  on  the  wire. 

"Old  Mr.  Allardyce,"  said  he,  mumbling  hurriedly, 
like  a  man  afraid  of  being  overheard  —  "old  Mr.  Al- 
lardyce, watchman  on  the  Dove  Run  tract,  has  just 
sent  out  word  that  a  gang  of  poachers  is  operating 
on  his  dams"  —  and  sharp  upon  that  terse  statement 
came  the  click  of  the  receiver  returned  to  its  hook. 

Dove  Run  City,  be  it  known,  was  anxious  enough 
on  its  own  account  to  see  the  poaching  traffic  stopped. 
The  local  and  visiting  poachers  are  amateur  ruffians 
of  some  standing,  drink  heavily  on  then-  trips,  and 
leave  forest  fires,  robbed  farms,  and  frightened  women 
marking  then:  trail  in  whatever  direction.  But  Dove 
Run  City,  too,  was  desperately  afraid  of  acquiring 
the  ill-will  of  such  gentry.  Their  casual  depreda- 
tions were  heavy  enough,  without  drawing  down  their 
deliberate  wrath  upon  the  weak  and  isolated  little 
community.  Better  speak  low  and  fast,  then,  with  an 
eye  over  either  shoulder,  or  else  bear  in  silence  and 
inform  not  at  all. 

"I'll  take  this  job  myself,"  said  the  Lieutenant, 
springing  out  of  bed.  And  as  he  jumped  downstairs, 
buckling  on  his  holster  belt,  he  named  the  Trooper 
to  accompany  him  —  named  also  a  four-months  Re- 
cruit who  should  profit  by  a  mild  taste  of  experience 
under  his  officer's  eye. 


NO  STORY  AT  ALL  309 

It  is  a  goodish  trip  from  Barracks  out  to  that 
forest  tract,  and  time  counted.  So  they  took  the 
Troop  car,  covering  the  road  to  Dove  Run  City  at 
a  speed  that  the  hour  allowed.  But  the  "General 
Store"  was  sound  asleep,  and  Joe  Hopper's  wife,  peer- 
ing from  an  upper  window  in  her  nightcap,  had  no 
views  to  offer  concerning  Joe's  whereabouts.  Joe  was 
"away"  —  quite  as  the  Lieutenant  expected.  Joe 
had  done  his  part,  and  had  no  idea  whatever  of  let- 
ting himself  in  for  identification  with  a  subject  so 
delicate. 

So  the  Lieutenant  drove  on,  climbing  the  worn 
wood-roads  through  the  tall  timber,  till  at  last  the 
headlights  picked  out  old  Allardyce's  cabin,  snuggled 
like  a  big  fungus  beneath  a  wall  of  rock. 

It  was  half  an  hour  after  midnight  by  now,  and 
Allardyce  had  turned  in.  But,  whether  he  had  fore- 
seen the  moment,  or  whether  by  usual  habit,  he 
needed  only  to  put  on  his  shoes,  coat,  and  hat,  to  be 
fully  dressed.  However,  the  prospect  ahead  so  ex- 
cited him  that  all  his  energies  fled  to  his  tongue.  Sit- 
ting on  the  edge  of  the  bed  in  the  midst  of  a  turbulent 
ocean  of  patchwork  quilt,  one  shoe  on  and  the  other 
dangling  in  his  hand,  he  had  to  rehearse  over  and 
over  again  the  story  of  the  day.  Each  time  that  he 
came  to  his  own  personal  clash  with  the  invaders  he 
grew  more  truculent. 

"...  An'  they  standin'  there,  the  big,  ugly  loafers, 
up  to  their  belts  in  water,  layin'  their  traps  right 
under  my  eyes!  I  says  to  'em,  I  says:  — 

"Git  out  o'  here.    Don't  you  know  you're  law- 
breakers and  thieves?' 


310        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"They  says,  'Git  out  yerself,  old  feller,  and  git 
out  quick,  or  we'll  drown  ye!' 

"I  says,  'That's  what  you've  been  threatenin', 
you  and  the  likes  of  you,  any  time  these  three  years. 
Now  I  give  ye  fair  warnin','  I  says,  'I'm  done  with 
ye.  I'll  have  no  more  nonsense  from  ye.  No,  sir! 
B'gosh!'  says  I,  'if  ye  ever  darst  to  come  here  again 
I'll  jest  slough  ye!' 

"So  then  I  went  off  and  left  'em.  I  wouldn't 
demean  myself  with  argyin'  with  such  no  further. 
And  after  nightfall  a  chance  come  to  get  word  in  to 
the  settlement — " 

"Let  him  put  that  other  shoe  on,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  or  we  won't  get  away  till  daylight,"  whispered 
the  Lieutenant  to  the  Trooper  sitting  by  the  bunk. 

The  Trooper  went  outside  and  counted  stars. 

They  bounced  along  the  wood-roads  a  mile  or  so 
farther,  and  then,  under  the  old  man's  guidance,  cut 
in  on  foot.  He  displayed  a  rabbit's  knowledge  of  the 
place  —  minute  and  accurate.  Finally,  between  half- 
past  two  and  three  o'clock,  at  some  distance  ahead, 
through  the  underbrush,  appeared  the  dull  light  of  a 
low  fire. 

"That  fire,"  said  Allardyce,  trembling  with  excite- 
ment, "is  on  the  far  side  of  yonder  road,  on  the  top 
of  the  bank  and  back  a  little.  Opposite  to  it,  on  the 
side  of  the  road,  is  an  ice-house.  Below,  to  the  left,  is 
Hemlock  Run,  where  trout  is  plenty.  That 's  the  place 
where  they've  got  their  fyke  net  —  the  villains!  But 
I'll  fix  'em  this  time,  so  I  will!"  —  and  he  shook  his 
fist  ferociously. 

The  detail  moved  quietly  up  to  the  ice-house,  a 


NO  STORY  AT  ALL  311 

big,  dim  hulk  in  the  darkness.  Against  the  wall  away 
from  the  road  leaned  a  ladder,  reaching  to  the  roof- 
tree.  The  Lieutenant  climbed  the  ladder,  hoping 
from  that  height  to  get  a  glimpse  of  those  around  the 
fire.  But  naught  could  be  seen.  The  interlacing 
underbrush  confused  the  view,  and  no  one  was  stir- 
ring. To  advance  on  the  place,  crackling  twigs,  would 
merely  serve  to  warn  the  quarry,  who  would  fade 
away  into  leafy  nothingness  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye.  So  the  only  course  was  to  sit  tight,  awaiting  de- 
velopments with  the  dawn. 

At  last  pale  patches  began  to  show  between  the 
hemlock-tops  overhead.  Birds  stirred,  with  broken 
twitterings.  And  then  of  a  sudden  the  fire  shot  up 
into  a  blaze,  where  some  one  had  kicked  it  and  thrown 
on  a  log. 

"They're  going  to  make  a  cup  of  coffee,  then  draw 
their  nets  and  get  away  before  daylight,"  whispered 
the  Lieutenant,  from  the  depths  of  experience. 

He  gathered  his  forces,  made  a  forward  movement, 
hid  again  in  the  underbrush,  and  waited. 

In  a  very  few  moments,  talking  together  as  men  do 
who  still  have  sleep  in  their  throats,  three  figures, 
heels  first,  came  lumbering  down  the  slope  from  the 
camp-fire.  Two  of  them  crashed  on  along  the  bank 
toward  the  point  where  Allardyce  had  said  their  net 
was  set.  The  third  moved  up  toward  the  ambush. 

The  Lieutenant  waited  until  the  pair,  wading  into 
the  stream,  were  actually  lifting  the  fyke.  Then :  — 

"Go  arrest  them,"  said  he  to  the  Trooper,  indicat- 
ing that  the  Recruit  should  follow. 

As  the  two  officers  quietly  left  cover,  the  third 


312        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

and  nearest  poacher  caught  sight  of  them.  Horror- 
stricken,  yet  thinking  himself  unseen,  he  turned  to 
warn  his  mates.  Not  daring  to  lift  his  voice,  he  stood 
like  a  disordered  semaphore,  wildly  waving  his  arms 
and  pointing.  Too  late.  His  mates  saw  him  well 
enough,  but  they  saw  the  Troopers  also.  The  sight 
seemed  to  paralyze  both  their  brains  and  the  legs 
under  them.  Net  in  hand,  they  stood  transfixed. 

Then  the  Lieutenant  stepped  into  the  open,  mov- 
ing toward  the  signaller,  who  now  first  became  aware 
of  his  presence.  Big,  powerful  hulk  that  he  was,  the 
fellow  stood  lowering,  obviously  weighing  resistance 
or  attack,  as  he  balanced  his  fish-spear  ominously. 

At  that  instant,  in  the  brush  just  behind  him,  ap- 
peared a  strange  vision  —  appeared  the  detached 
head  of  Allardyce,  supported  by  its  long  gray  whiskers 
even  as  the  heads  of  the  cherubim  are  supported  by 
their  several  wings  —  Allardyce,  who,  lost  to  sight  for 
a  moment,  had  been  prospecting  on  his  own  account 
and  who  now  fancied  himself  the  only  discoverer  of 
the  poachers'  awakening. 

"S'st!  S'st!  They're  comin'I  They're  comin'!" 
His  whisper  rose  like  the  whisper  of  steam  from  a 
locomotive,  as,  craning  his  neck  over  the  sheep- 
laurel  thicket,  he  beckoned  the  Lieutenant  violently. 

Just  as  the  words  left  his  lips,  he  perceived  the 
broad  back  of  the  poacher,  not  ten  feet  in  front  of 
him.  His  jaw  dropped.  His  face  bleached  green  in 
the  dim  dawn  of  the  woods.  Then  the  brush  closed 
softly,  softly  over  him,  and  before  the  enemy  could 
fairly  turn  and  locate  the  sound  he  had  made,  he  was 
as  invisible  as  a  tree-toad  and  as  harmless. 


NO  STORY  AT  ALL  313 

Said  the  Lieutenant,  walking  quietly  toward  the 
angry  giant:  "State  Police  Officer.  I  arrest  you." 
To  which,  after  the  briefest  attempt  to  return  his 
captor's  gaze,  the  delinquent  meekly  submitted. 

"Now  we  will  walk  over  and  look  at  your  outfit," 
remarked  Lieutenant  Price  affably. 

Around  the  camp-fire  lay  a  lot  of  fish,  some  speared, 
some  netted;  the  ordinary  camp  supplies,  two  cases 
of  beer,  a  more  than  liberal  allowance  of*  whiskey, 
and,  end  to  the  blaze,  a  pile  of  blankets  of  unusual 
size. 

Struck  by  the  shape  of  the  pile,  the  Lieutenant 
gingerly  plucked  one  corner  from  the  far  end  of  the 
heap,  lifted  it  a  trifle  and  looked  inside  —  on  the  face 
of  a  sleeper.  Automatically  his  hand  dropped.  But 
the  outline  of  that  face  —  He  lifted  the  corner  again, 
for  another  brief  survey  of  the  nose  and  eyebrow. 

"Who  is  that  fellow?"  he  inquired  of  his  prisoner. 

"That  fellow,"  growled  the  giant,  "is  my  wife." 

Very  quietly,  very  gently,  the  Lieutenant  retreated, 
propelling  his  man  back  down  the  bank,  and  handing 
him  over  to  the  detail  for  safe-keeping.  Then  he  set 
out  on  a  side-trip  of  mercy,  to  make  sure  that  Al- 
lardyce  had  effected  his  escape  and  was  safely  out  of 
sight. 

Returning,  satisfied,  his  eye  encountered  a  new 
figure.  High  on  the  stream-bank,  solitary,  stood 
a  young  Napoleon  gazing  upon  Waterloo.  Arms 
folded,  tight-breeched  legs  wide  apart,  hat  over  eyes, 
chin  on  breast,  attention  fixed  in  gloomy  abstraction, 
he  stood  like  an  image  of  bronze.  But  his  very  soli- 
tude screamed  for  interruption  and  his  contours  could 


314        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

not  be  questioned.  The  Lieutenant,  shying,  swung  a 
wide  detour,  to  join  the  detail  at  the  camp-fire. 

"How  did  you  come  into  these  woods?"  he  de- 
manded of  the  prisoners. 

"By  automobile." 

"Is  the  car  coming  after  you?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"Six  o'clock  this  morning." 

"Very  well.  We  will  take  you  three  prisoners,  the 
fish  you  have  caught,  and  your  fyke  and  fishing-traps 
in  our  car.  Your  own  conveyance  can  take  out  your 
proper  belongings  later  on.  Now  pick  up  the  stuff. 
We'll  be  going." 

The  two  of  the  fyke-net  hastened  by  obedience  to 
acquire  such  merit  as  they  might,  and,  laden  with 
the  proof  of  their  sin,  started  ahead  on  the  outward 
trail,  closely  guarded  by  the  Trooper  and  his  eager 
understudy. 

The  Lieutenant  remained  a  moment  behind.  The 
camp-fire  must  be  quenched  to  the  last  spark;  he 
intended  his  captive  to  perform  that  operation.  Sul- 
lenly kicking  it  apart,  the  giant  stamped  it  over  with 
his  great  water-boots.  Then,  some  points  of  red  still 
gleaming,  he  snatched  two  bottles  of  beer  from  the 
case  on  the  ground,  knocked  their  heads  off,  nipped 
one  neck  between  each  thumb  and  forefinger,  and, 
legs  astride,  stood  with  his  chin  to  the  sky,  draining 
the  first  while  he  emptied  the  second  at  full  arm's 
length  upon  the  sizzling  embers.  The  last  spark  dead, 
"March!"  ordered  the  Lieutenant,  and  started  his 
man  in  the  wake  of  the  vanguard. 


NO  STORY  AT  ALL  315 

Then  from  the  steep  a  hollow  shriek,  sobs,  broken 
cries,  loud  weeping;  Napoleon  had  found  his  voice, 
and  it  was  no  frail  organ. 

"She's  scared!"  grumbled  the  giant,  with  scant 
evidence  of  sympathy.  "Doesn't  like  being  left 
alone." 

Said  the  Lieutenant:  "Go  over  and  tell  her  to  be 
patient,  to  wait  here  quietly  and  take  care  of  the 
stuff,  till  your  car  comes  in  for  her." 

Which  being  accomplished  and  the  wails  hushed, 
the  rear  division  fell  in,  and  had  soon  covered  the  dis- 
tance to  the  waiting  Troop  motor. 

Then  the  Lieutenant  took  thought  once  again  of 
poor  old  Allardyce,  left  all  alone  in  those  big,  dark 
woods  without  a  neighbor,  with  nothing  but  private 
authority  to  stiffen  him  —  poor  old  Allardyce,  of  a 
certainty  shaking  in  his  shoes  at  this  very  moment. 
What  if  some  suspicion  did  lurk  in  these  rascals'  minds 
that  to  him  they  owed  their  undoing?  Then,  indeed, 
were  his  fears  well-founded.  Something  must  be  done 
to  square  him.  For  a  moment  the  young  officer  con- 
sidered. Then  he  called  to  the  man  at  the  wheel :  — 

"Run  down  to  that  watchman's  shanty,  where  we 
stopped  coming  in." 

Every  aperture  was  tight  shut  in  the  cabin  under 
the  rock;  effect  of  a  householder  dead  to  the  world, 
rounding  out  a  ten  hours'  slumber. 

"Pound  on  that  door.  Wake  him  up!"  roared  the 
Lieutenant.  "I  don't  leave  these  woods  till  I've 
shown  light  to  that  citizen." 

In  a  moment,  propelled  by  the  hand  of  the  Re- 
cruit, out  came  the  old  man,  wavering  pitifully.  The 


316        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

Recruit's  gaze  was  very  wide  as  he  towered  erect  as 
a  white-wood  behind  his  convoy.  But  his  ruddy 
young  face  was  admirably  stony. 

"Good!  You're  the  man  I  found  here  last  night," 
the  Lieutenant  bit  out  in  tones  of  stinging  wrath. 
"Now,  listen  and  understand.  The  next  time  a  State 
Police  officer  asks  information  of  you,  take  care  you  tell 
him  the  truth  and  the  whole  truth,  tell  it  quick,  and  be 
civil  about  it.  This  is  your  warning!" 

As  the  speaker  finished,  his  off  eyelid  closed  lightly. 

The  old  man  proved  no  laggard  in  the  uptake. 
"Yes,  sir,"  he  mumbled,  sliding  rapidly  into  a  sulky 
slouch. 

And  all  the  way  out  of  the  woods  the  Recruit 
wrestled  in  his  own  mind  with  a  foolish  illusion  that 
he  had  seen  the  shadow  of  a  quiver  in  the  nigh  eye  of 
old  Allardyce. 

"So  we  got  home  about  an  hour  ago,  put  our  guests 
in  our  safe-deposit  box,  dumped  the  exhibits  under 
the  roses,  got  a  bath  and  a  shave  and  breakfast  — 
and  now  you  have  the  story  from  A  to  Z  inclusive."  ; 

"What's  the  next  move  with  the  people  in  the 
safe-deposit?  " 

"J.  P." 

"When?" 

"Now.  Want  to  come  along?" 

The  Justice  of  the  Peace  holds  his  court  in  a  little 
one-story  pagoda,  lately  the  shop  of  the  village  cob- 
bler. Perhaps  the  cobbler  has  died,  or  inherited 
means,  or  gone  to  Pittsburgh  to  make  munitions. 
Anyway,  his  counter  is  bare,  and  his  shelves,  once 


NO  STORY  AT  ALL  317 

dedicated  to  shiny-toed  shoes,  blacking,  and  laces, 
now  display  nothing  more  than  a  few  odd  volumes  of 
old  law  reports,  sustained  considerably  off  the  per- 
pendicular by  a  chunky  "Compendium  of  Human 
Knowledge"  and  by  a  "Digest  of  the  Laws  of  Penn- 
sylvania." 

The  only  furnishings  in  the  room  are  the  Justice's 
desk,  four  wooden  chairs,  a  rocker,  and  a  dim-chim- 
neyed kerosene  bracket-lamp.  An  old  sleigh-bell, 
suspended  over  the  door  on  a  swan's-neck  of  rusty 
tin,  gives  a  feeble  clink  as  the  door  opens,  thereby 
flying  in  the  face  of  the  legend  printed  with  many 
flourishes  on  a  bit  of  green  paper  stuck  to  the  opposite 
wall. 

"Keep  Your  Tongue  Still,"  says  the  legend. 

The  Justice,  sitting  at  his  desk,  gravely  returns 
the  salute  of  the  entering  officers  of  the  State  Police. 
There  are  four  of  them  now  —  the  Lieutenant,  the 
Trooper,  the  Recruit,  and  the  First  Sergeant  of  the 
Troop,  who  will  conduct  the  prosecution.  The  Justice 
is  rather  a  ponderous  man,  perhaps  sixty-five  years 
old,  with  a  kindly,  painstaking  face  and  a  big,  honest 
nose  bestridden  by  a  pair  of  steel-bowed  spectacles. 
His  right  sleeve  hangs  empty,  pinned  to  his  shoulder. 

The  prisoners  are  now  seated  before  him.  The 
first  two  are  middle-aged  men;  the  third,  the  giant,  is 
in  his  late  twenties.  One  has  the  face  of  a  drunkard, 
one  is  twin  to  an  ox,  and  the  last,  more  clearly  cut, 
is  in  a  primitive  way  handsome.  Yesterday's  beard 
bristles  on  their  chins,  and  their  thick,  curly  locks 
are  tousled.  Each  man  of  them  must  weigh  two  hun- 
dred pounds,  variously  distributed;  and  in  their  stiff, 


318       THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

yellow  canvas  hunting-suits  and  their  big  water-boots, 
they  look  colossi  —  hulking,  shambling  colossi,  every 
one  of  them.  Eyes  on  the  floor,  elbows  on  knees,  they 
sprawl  in  their  chairs,  glumly  contemplating  the  bat- 
tered tin  pail  planted  in  their  midst. 

That  pail  is  full  of  expiring  fish,  calling  with  their 
last  gasps  for  vengeance! 

Attracted  by  the  glimpse  afforded  through  the 
uncurtained  windows,  a  passing  citizen  stops,  stares, 
and  then  abandons  his  errand  for  the  entertainment 
of  the  moment.  He  pushes  open  the  door,  nods  to  the 
Justice  and  to  the  State  Police  officers,  and  silently 
vaults  to  a  seat  on  the  counter,  where  he  settles  him- 
self to  observe,  swinging  his  legs  comfortably. 

Next  the  village  clergyman  and  his  theologue  son, 
on  their  way  to  the  post-office,  are  caught  by  the 
scene  and  enter.  The  divine  bows  first  to  the  Justice. 
Then  he  goes  over  and  claps  the  Lieutenant  on  the 
shoulder,  as  he  grasps  his  hand. 

"Always  at  the  good  work,  I  see,"  he  whispers, 
and  ranges  himself  beside  the  officer. 

But  the  theologue,  with  a  cheerful  anticipatory 
grin,  joins  the  leg-swinger  on  the  counter.  They  say 
the  lad  already  preaches  good  sermons  and  that  he 
likes  to  draw  his  sub-texts  from  points  nearer  home 
than  Palestine. 

A  small  boy  slips  in;  a  farmer,  glancing  down  from 
the  box  of  his  Conestoga  as  he  drives  by,  reins  up, 
hitches  his  team  to  the  maple  tree  at  the  door,  and 
joins  the  assembly.  Two  interested  citizens  follow 
him  and  the  room  is  full.  Dead  silence  reigns,  persist- 
ent, extraordinary.  Is  it  the  four  stern  young  figures, 


NO  STORY  AT  ALL  319 

grave  of  face,  perfect  of  bearing,  faultless  of  dress, 
wearing  the  sombre  uniform  of  the  State,  who  by 
their  mere  presence  impose  it? 

The  trial  opens.  The  First  Sergeant,  quiet,  erect, 
soldierly,  and  utterly  competent,  stands  at  the  Jus- 
tice's side.  Thomas  Stone,  Henry  Landulik,  and  Wil- 
liam Haddon  are  duly  charged  with  "Using  Unlaw- 
ful Devices  in  a  Trout  Stream."  "Guilty,"  pleads 
Stone,  of  the  drink-sodden  countenance.  "Guilty," 
pleads  Landulik,  twin  to  the  ox. 

"Not  guilty,"  growls  Haddon  the  giant. 

The  Lieutenant  does  n't  even  look  bored.  The 
First  Sergeant  calls  him  to  testify.  He  tells  his  tale 
very  briefly  and  with  exceeding  clarity  both  of  state- 
ment and  of  diction.  But  the  good  old  Justice,  plod- 
ding after  him  with  laborious  pen,  loses  the  thread 
after  the  first  two  phrases.  Therefore,  the  officer,  with 
respectful  courtesy,  goes  back  to  the  beginning  and 
repeats  his  statement,  four  or  five  words  at  a  time, 
pausing  at  each  interval  for  the  gray  head  bending 
over  the  stiff  fingers  to  nod  release.  The  story,  as 
completed,  presents  all  the  facts  essential  to  convic- 
tion, and  presents  them  in  the  most  terse  and  consecu- 
tive shape. 

"Do  you  wish  to  ask  me  any  questions?"  the  Lieu- 
tenant inquires  of  Haddon. 

"No,  sir." 

Then  the  First  Sergeant  calls  the  Trooper,  who, 
duly  sworn,  testifies  as  ably  as  did  his  officer,  while 
the  Justice,  prompted  from  point  to  point  by  the 
quiet  suggestions  of  the  First  Sergeant  in  his  capacity 
of  Prosecutor  for  the  State,  asks  questions  whose 


320  THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

answers  again  underscore  the  vital,  incriminating 
facts.  This  complaint  will  never  fail  in  a  court  of  rec- 
ord on  certiorari. 

Then  comes  the  turn  of  the  fledgling  Recruit. 
Rigid,  and  blushing  furiously  under  his  superior's 
eyes,  the  lad  yet  shows  how  well  he  is  learning  his 
lessons.  He  tells  his  story  like  the  clear  thinker  he  is 
bound  to  make  of  himself,  without  one  extra  or  re- 
considered word,  and  he  answers  all  questions  as 
straight  and  clear  as  a  bell  answers  its  clapper. 

The  Lieutenant  cannot  repress  a  movement  of 
pride.  "What  do  you  think  of  my  little  Recruit? "  he 
whispers .  '  *  Promising  ? ' ' 

But  now  Haddon  is  being  sworn  —  and  takes  the 
oath  and  fulfils  the  succeeding  formalities  with  a  cor- 
rect anticipation  of  requirements  that  tells  its  own 
story.  Never,  he  testifies,  notwithstanding  —  never 
before  has  he  been  under  arrest  in  all  his  blameless 
existence.  He  went  out  with  these  his  friends  for  a 
little  lawful  fishing.  He  fished  with  his  hands  and  with 
a  pole.  He  never  saw  or  heard  of  a  fyke.  And  when 
the  fish  stopped  biting,  he  laid  himself  down  by  the 
fire  and  slept  soundly  till  morning.  At  dawn  he  arose, 
went  down  to  the  stream  and  examined  his  poles;  and 
was  quietly  returning  to  camp  again,  when,  behold! 
the  State  Police  jumped  out  from  nowhere,  with- 
out shadow  of  provocation,  and  inexplicably  arrested 
him. 

Then  came  the  turn  of  the  Prosecuting  Officer. 
Without  any  raising  of  the  voice,  without  any  extra 
emphasis  or  apparent  pressure,  the  First  Sergeant's 
whole  being  flamed  subtly  trenchant,  poised  to  win. 


NO  STORY  AT  ALL  321 

His  questions,  quiet  and  seemingly  simple,  drove 
sharp,  direct,  incisive,  obviously  aimed  straight  at 
some  clearly  sighted  goal.  His  material  feet  assuredly 
remained  on  the  same  spot  by  the  Justice's  side,  yet 
you  could  have  sworn  that  with  each  close-clipped 
phrase,  —  there  were  not  a  dozen  words  in  the  longest 
of  them,  —  he  crowded  the  prisoner  one  pace  farther 
toward  the  wall.  Then  came  three  bullet-like  de- 
mands, three  answering  statements  well  foreseen  — 
and  bang/  fell  the  trap — caught  beyond  struggle  in 
a  hopelessly  incriminating  lie. 

The  Justice  raises  his  eyes  to  the  officer  with  the  un- 
questioning confidence  of  a  child.  His  spectacles  slip 
down  on  his  nose  while,  without  a  word,  the  First 
Sergeant  turns  to  the  shelf,  takes  down  the  law  book, 
and  lays  it,  open,  before  the  magistrate,  with  his 
finger  on  paragraph  and  line. 

"In  regard  to  Stone  and  Landulik,"  says  he,  "I 
would  ask,  they  having  pleaded  guilty,  that  you  im- 
pose a  fine  of  twenty  dollars  upon  each  of  them,  for 
one  violation  of  the  law.  In  regard  to  Mr.  Haddon, 
there  are  three  counts  —  the  using  of  an  illegal  device 
in  a  trout  stream,  the  operating  of  a  net  without  a 
metallic  tag  attached,  and  the  using  of  a  spear  out  of 
season  in  a  trout  stream.  I  ask  twenty  dollars  on  each 
charge,  or  a  sixty-dollar  fine." 

The  Squire  turned  to  the  prisoners,  addressing 
them. 

"Mr.  Haddon,"  said  he,  "you  are  found  guilty  by 
the  evidence  given  against  you  on  three  charges,  and 
fined  twenty  dollars  on  each.  If  you  are  not  prepared 
to  pay  the  fine  and  costs,  then  you  are  committed  to 


322        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

the  jail  of  this  County,  one  day  for  each  dollar,  or 
sixty  days  in  jail.  Stone  and  Landulik  are  fined 
twenty  dollars  and  costs  each,  or  twenty  days  in 
jail." 

The  First  Sergeant,  the  while,  had  been  observing 
the  giant  with  a  critical  eye.  Now  he  asked  him  a 
question  aside,  then  addressed  himself  once  more  to 
the  Justice. 

"Mr.  Haddon  wishes  to  reopen  the  case  and  to  be 
allowed  to  change  his  plea  from  'Not  guilty'  to 
'Guilty.'  If  you  allow  his  request,  I  would  ask  that 
he  pay  the  same  fine  as  that  laid  upon  the  other  two 
prisoners." 

"On  your  plea  of  'Guilty,'  Mr.  Haddon,  I  fine 
you  twenty  dollars,"  the  Squire  responds,  without 
hesitation. 

"Now,"  says  the  First  Sergeant,  dropping  his  State 
Prosecutor's  manner,  "what  do  you  men  choose,  jail 
or  pay?" 

The  three  look  dolefully  at  their  boots,  speechless. 
At  last  Stone  sighs  out  —  "I  ain't  got  no  twenty 
dollars.  Guess  I  hafter  take  jail." 

"S'pose  so"  —  "Same  here,"  groan  the  others. 

A  pause.  Not  one  sign  of  sympathy  on  the  part  of 
the  powers  of  the  law. 

"Well,  Stone,"  observes  the  Lieutenant  dryly,  "if 
you  and  Landulik  have  both  invested  all  your  money 
in  cash  registers  and  corner  property,  I  think  the 
least  that  Haddon  can  do  is  to  save  you  from  jail. 
He  keeps  the  saloon!" 

At  which  destructive  home  truth  the  masks  of  all 
three  break  down.  They  grin  sheepishly. 


NO  STORY  AT  ALL  323 

"Can  I  go  home  and  get  the  cash  for  us?"  asks 
Haddon. 

As  the  canvas-clad  trio,  now  entirely  restored  to 
good-humor,  lumbered  off  down  the  road  under  the 
shepherding  care  of  the  Trooper,  I  turned  to  the 
Lieutenant  with  a  question  or  two. 

"Why  did  you  threaten  to  come  down  so  hard  on 
the  giant?" 

"Because  he  lied  and  tried  to  escape  us;  to  show 
him  that  we  were  perfectly  willing  and  ready  to  take 
our  case  to  court  if  he  desired  it;  to  show  that  we  will 
fight  if  they  drive  us  to  it;  to  remind  them  that  we 
present  no  charge  that  we  cannot  sustain." 

"Why  were  you  so  easy  with  them  all  in  the  end?" 

"  Because  these  three,  as  it  happens,  are  not  really 
bad  men,  and  the  penalty  we  asked  was  severe  enough 
for  them." 

"Why  did  you  keep  the  woman  entirely  out  of  the 
matter?  Was  n't  she  equally  guilty  with  the  rest? 
And  you  never  even  spoke  of  her!" 

The  Lieutenant's  face  took  on  a  look  of  patient 
martyrdom. 

"  Yes,"  said  he, "  I  '11  answer  that,  too.  It's  like  this : 
We  figure  that  you  should  spare  the  women  wher- 
ever it's  possible.  And  that  you  can  use  sense.  One 
in  a  family  is  enough  to  strike.  You  need  n't  rub  it 


in." 


Later,  down  at  Barracks,  he  took  from  his  desk 
a  sheaf  of  manuscript,  the  first  examination  papers 
of  the  newest  probation  men.  The  Lieutenant  had 
framed  the  questions  himself,  to  test  the  calibre  of 
his  lads. 


324        THE  STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  singling  out  a  sheet.  "Per- 
haps this  will  help." 

Under  the  typewritten  question,  "What  are  the 
first  essentials  required  of  an  officer  of  the  Pennsyl- 
vania State  Police  Force?"  stood  the  following  words, 
in  the  loose,  boyish  script  of  the  fledgling  Recruit: 
"To  know  the  law  exactly.  To  do  your  whole  duty 
and  do  it  quick.  To  be  gentle  and  courteous  always. 
And  never  take  any  one's  bluff." 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
V    .   *    .   A 


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